


My God, You Tempt My Anxious Mind

by amsterdamned (Icewolf51)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:50:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icewolf51/pseuds/amsterdamned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no fine line between physical and verbal abuse. It’s either your feelings get hurt, or your face does.<br/>For Arthur, there’s both.</p><p>In which Arthur is the school punching bag, and Eames, the sentimental exchange student, is his new friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My God, You Tempt My Anxious Mind

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a work of pure procrastination. It's taken over a year and I'm not sure whether or not I'm particularly proud of it or extremely disappointed. I guess I'll find out! Thanks to Penchant for being my sort-of-beta and telling me when things are getting a little too out of hand (in the gay way).  
> Both the title and the epigraph are lyrics from the band Milo Greene (check them out, you won't regret it).  
> Check the end notes for trigger warnings.

  _Is this my_ _old shape?_  


_My mind is away_

_How long have you been gone?_

_The cold winter aged the soft of your face_

_And I cant move on_

~Autumn Tree, Milo Greene

 

Arthur keeps his head down.

There is no fine line between physical and verbal abuse. It’s either your feelings get hurt, or your face does.

For Arthur, there’s both.

It’s been like this ever since he started school. In kindergarten, he was pushed on the playground. In third grade, he was called a fag, though neither him nor his attacker truly knew what it meant. In middle school, he was shoved into lockers. In high school, there is everything. He is duct taped to toilets and beaten up behind the math building and forced to eat the worms that they dissect in biology class, lest his ribs get broken (which they did the next week anyway). No place is really safe for him in school, because if he goes to a certain teacher’s classroom for an extended period of time, he’d be called a teacher’s pet and get his ass kicked in the boy’s locker room after gym.

 There is no safe place. There is no quiet place.

 So Arthur keeps his head down.

 -

When Eames starts going to Arthur’s school, he takes immediate notice of him. He’s huge, muscles galore, and wears a leather biking jacket to accompany his Yamaha bike. His entire persona screams ‘bully’, but he’s never there when Arthur’s personal thugs go to beat him up in the parking lot.

Arthur’s not relieved, exactly. He’s just one less person to have to worry about. It’s just when he starts talking to Arthur that he begins to get worried.

The first time is in English when he finds Eames sitting next to him and rolling his eyes at the curriculum the teacher gave him when he first walked in.

 “Macbeth is one of Shakespeare’s worst, if I do say so myself. I’d rather Romeo and Juliet, and that’s saying something,” he says, and it takes Arthur a moment to process that he’s being addressed.

 He clears his throat which feels like it hasn’t been used in days. “Uh, yeah. I mean, it has some redeeming qualities, I guess,” he says, because he’s been forced to do it for years anyway. He’s learned to have some sympathy for poor old Macbeth, who is forced to kill his king to whom he is loyal, all because of his bitchy wife. His craziness, while inevitable for a good story, was preventable by a better choice in spouse.

 Eames looks at him with something in his eyes, and Arthur regrets saying anything. In this school, any opinion he has will get him face-first in the dumpster by the park. But strangely enough, Eames doesn’t look upset or murderous, simply curious.

 “Like what?”

 Thankfully, the bell rings and their teacher starts up class. Arthur tilts his chair slightly away from Eames and tries his best not to get called on with his head on the desk and hands by his ears.

 When the bell rings again, Arthur scrambles for his books and spills them on the ground.

 Somebody laughs, which Arthur ignores, and Eames, thankfully, does absolutely nothing.

 Just another person he doesn’t have to worry about, Arthur reminds himself. Nobody to get attached to. Just ignore.

 He often tries to stick by this motto.

 -

 On the same day, Arthur finds that Eames is also in his gym class. They’re playing field hockey, which Arthur particularly likes because it’s a voluntary game. Instead, he does laps around the field until the coach calls them off and sends them back to the locker room.

 This is always the worst part of Arthur’s day.

 He runs to get his school clothes and rushes into a stall, hoping to get in and out before they even know he was there.

 He does not succeed.

 When the pushes the door open, Dom Cobb is standing there with his arms crossed, looking at him with a vein pulsing in his temple.

 “Why the fuck,” he nearly yells, “were you in my bathroom stall, faggot?”

 Arthur quivers away from his advancing frame and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know...” he trails off.

 Cobb curls his upper lip. “Don’t let it fucking happen again. Don’t want fags like you staring at me when I’m changing,” he says, and picks Arthur up by the collar, shoving him backward into the sinks. He backs away then, into the stall, and Arthur doesn’t cry, because he’s used to this by now. He just staggers away, back aching, and shoves his gym clothes back into his locker.

 Same as usual.

 -

 He walks home quickly, the back way through the forest, and stops by the stream he goes to when he wants to think. He sits down on a rock, puts his head in his hands, and cries, sobs really, for what feels like years. He cries until it gets dark, at which point he wipes his tears on the collar and gets up and walks home.

 His parents say nothing and neither does he, so he takes his dinner upstairs and flushes it down the toilet. He goes immediately to sleep without doing his homework and knows he's going to regret it in the morning.

 -

 As it turns out, it wasn’t just Arthur’s own homework that he didn’t do. He also had to do three other student’s homework, and this means that he’s ultimately screwed for the day.

 He begs and pleads with his parents not to go to school, because he was never good at faking sick, but his mother practically shoves him into the car and drives him to the parking lot where he nearly sprints inside, to partial safety.

 He stays close to the walls with his head under his hood and darts in between the people he knows won’t pay attention to him. He keeps accidentally thinking about what happened the last time he forgot to do Robert Fischer’s homework, and wants to throw up in the nearest janitor’s closet. He can’t even fathom what he’ll do this time, if it’ll grow or fade, if he’ll even notice.

 He notices.

 Arthur is by the dumpsters, where he eats lunch, when Robert Fischer, Dom Cobb, and Saito, the buff new Japanese kid crowd around him.

 He’s crouched down, sitting directly next to one of the metal bins, and he drops his measly sandwich immediately.

 “Where’s my essay?” Cobb asks, holding out his hand and curling his fingers toward him and into a fist.

 The thing about Dom Cobb is that he’s Arthur’s second cousin or something, so he’s not allowed to touch him in the way that the others do, for fear that he could get in trouble with their family.

 Plus, he’s a total homophobe, so it’s not like he would even if he could.

 Fischer, on the other hand, has no qualms about skipping class to take Arthur to his car and fuck his mouth till he bleeds, and he doesn’t know about Saito, but he has his suspicions. And Fischer’s father is the superintendent, so it’s not as if he would get in trouble for cutting.

 Arthur tries to think of a quick excuse, but he realizes it’s completely useless. “I’m sorry,” he says, trying to be assertive but not loud. “I didn’t have time.”

 “My shit comes first, got that, asshole?” Cobb says, squinting at him.

 Arthur nods and closes his eyes as Cobb grabs him by the collar and shoves him against the trash bin.

 “Never fucking again,” he whispers, right into Arthur’s ear, and then punches him in the eye with his meaty fist.

 Arthur cries out in pain because he can’t help it, because fuck, that hurt, and Cobb leaves, motioning for Robert to do whatever he wants. And he does.

 He drags Arthur by the wrist to his car, leaving Saito by the garbage cans, looking disappointed. Arthur doesn’t have the heart to wonder why while he’s being forced into the back seat. Fischer gets in the front and drives away from school grounds, into the forest of town, and then climbs in the back.

 Arthur is feeling numb at this point, nervous down to his toes, fingers on his swollen eye and lips tightly sealed. He doesn’t look when Fischer unzips his jeans, but finds it hard to ignore it when he shoves Arthur’s face toward his crotch.

And in all honesty, if Arthur could speak, he could tell Fischer to stop, and he probably would. He may be the type to rape and run, but he knew when taking something too far would get him in trouble. So he gave Arthur a look that said don’t you dare and Arthur began sucking against his will.

 Fischer comes in his mouth a long time later, so much later that Arthur doesn’t even know what period it is, and Arthur thinks vaguely of disease.

 He grunts out a ‘thanks’ and drags Arthur out of the car with him as he transfers to the front seat and drives off. He leaves Arthur sitting in a pile of leaves on a dirt road in the middle of the forest with no way to get back to school, and so he lays back against a tree and tries not to cry again.

 He takes in deep breaths and he can feel his half eaten lunch rising up in his stomach, threatening to leave his body violently. He wrestles with the idea of just forcing himself to vomit now and getting it over with, but eventually bodily functions take over and he leans to the side as the offensive substance exists through his mouth. He moves to the other side of the tree he’s leaning against, and falls asleep. It’s not like he could have done anything else. It’s not like he even cares.

 -

 It’s probably around dinnertime when a hiker passes Arthur on his way up the hill. His crunching footsteps on the ground force Arthur’s eyes open, and panic floods his body.

 He tries to stand, but only ends up becoming unbalanced because of the weight on his back. The hiker stops and watches him nervously until Arthur falls to his knees and collapses hard on his chest, his hands too weak to hold him up themselves.

 “Are you alright?” the man asks, rushing to Arthur’s side nervously.

 Arthur’s following retch is enough to answer that for him.

 “What’s your name, son?” he asks, one hand on Arthur’s back as he gags into the dirt.

 When Arthur can finally sit up, he lifts his hand to wipe away tears from his cheek and avoids the other man’s eyes.

 “Arthur,” he responds, furiously wiping at his mouth.

 “What’s wrong? Do you need some help?” the hiker responds instantly, one hand still on Arthur’s back.

 “I uh--” Arthur doesn’t know quite know what to do in this situation. Here is a man, probably from around town because he looks kind of familiar, and he’s offering to... what? Help him? What if he’s lying? “I just ended up in the wrong place, I guess. Ate some bad food.”

 The man looks sympathetic. “Do you need a ride somewhere? My car is just down the road, I don’t need to be here.”

 Arthur considers it. He in no way, shape, or form wants to see his parents until he absolutely has to, and it’s not like he’s going to go back to school at this hour. He’s about to say no, that he can take care of himself when his stomach growls. He’s not surprised, since he’s just extricated his stomach of everything inside, but the man’s eyes widen.

 “I know this is sort of weird, but I’m supposed to meet my son for some food at the diner. Would you like to come along? You don’t have to pay, it would be on me,” he says, and Arthur doesn’t know what to say.

 He thinks about it for only a minute before nodding. What does he have to lose?

 -

 The man’s name is Charles, and Arthur supposes he would find him attractive if he weren’t so much older. He’s probably in his fifties with rugged features, and the more Arthur looks at him, the more he seems familiar, even though he’s positive that he’s never seen the man before.

 Charles asks Arthur about himself, and Arthur tries his best to dodge all questions that are invasive and personal (although that’s probably more to Arthur than to most other people). In the car, he uses his old, outdated flip phone to text his parents and tell him that he’s having dinner with a friend, and as expected, they don’t respond. Arthur tries not to care, but it’s hard. It’s always been hard.

 When Charles realizes that Arthur doesn’t particularly want to talk, they drive in silence to the diner. Arthur expects it to be awkward, but it really isn’t, because Charles seems kind and he has a slight smile on his face that would make Arthur feel skeeved out if it were anyone else.

 They’re about to drive past the parking lot when Charles curses under his breath.

 “I missed the entrance to the carpark,” he says, and sniffs.

 Arthur wonders at his use of the word. He doesn’t have a British accent, so he doesn’t really have a reason to be using it unless he spent a lot of time there. It scares Arthur for no reason, to be sitting in the passenger seat of the car of a man who he has never seen before in his life and knows absolutely nothing about.

 Eventually, they get to the carpark and as soon as the car is in a space, Arthur hops out quickly. It’s still running, and Charles gives him a strange look, but says nothing.

 They stroll over to the diner entrance lazily and it makes Arthur nervous, his stride and his casualness, but he follows anyway, eager to get something to eat. He hadn’t realized quite how hungry he was until he had seen a place where they could get food.

 They walk inside, and Charles waves to somebody out of view. Arthur tries to see, but the boy who is probably Charles’ son has already ducked back into the booth. Charles nods at the waiter who smiles back, and Arthur realizes that he’s a familiar at this place.

 They walk to the booth and he keeps his head down as Charles and his son exchange greetings. He doesn’t want to get in their way. When Charles sits, he sits as well, and when he looks up, the person sitting across from him is no other than Eames, the kid in his gym and English class, the one that defied expectations and didn’t want to kill Arthur whenever he spoke.

 Eames brightens. “Arthur?” he asks, and Arthur is surprised that he even knows his name. “What are you doing here?” It isn’t hostile like Arthur expects it to be, almost wants it to be, merely curious.

 “I, uh-” he begins, but Charles cuts him off, sensing his hesitation.

 “He was hiking where I was and we started up a conversation. I invited him here to join us, is that alright?” Charles confirms, and he looks strangely hopeful.

 “Yeah, of course,” Eames responds, and smiles blindingly at Arthur. His teeth are a bit crooked, but it’s strangely endearing, and Arthur looks away before he has the urge to smile back.

 Arthur sits down next to Charles and instantly regrets it, because now he has to look directly at Eames the entire time.

 “How do you two boys know each other?” Charles asks, and when Arthur doesn’t make any move to respond, Eames pipes up.

 “I’m in his English class. Oh, also gym, isn’t that right?” he asks, and Arthur nods, looking down at the zipper on his jacket. “Speaking of which, where were you today?” He tilts his head, and once again, it’s only curious.

 “Skipped,” Arthur says, a nervous excuse and one he is sure Eames isn’t going to believe. But to his surprise, Eames lets it go and starts talking with his father.

 Arthur makes an effort to try and contribute to the conversation whenever he’s asked, he really does, but Eames makes him so nervous and he can barely say more than three words at a time, to his embarrassment.

 Arthur orders chicken tenders, something cheap and easy to eat, and is more self-conscious about getting it than he thought he would be. He can feel Eames's eyes boring into him as he dips them into ketchup and slowly chews, staring at his plate intently. The table is silent as everyone eats, and they both have steak, which makes Arthur feel even worse about eating his cheap meal.

 The meal is eaten mostly in silence, and Arthur can’t even stand it. He feels like every bite he takes sounds like a thunderstorm, even though the diner around them is rumbling with noises and conversations of other customers. Eames and Charles don’t seem phased by it, and that makes Arthur jealous and scared at the same time.

 When they finish eating, Eames and Charles pick up the conversation again.

 “How is mum?” Eames asks, and Charles shrugs.

 “I don’t know, I haven’t talked to her today,” he responds, looking almost sheepish.

 Arthur realizes then why Charles uses British vocab instead of American. He feels kind of stupid, considering how long it took him.

 “Your mother lives England?” Arthur asks, surprising himself and Eames.

 “Yeah, has for all of her life. Pop and I moved out here just recently,” he responds, and Arthur nods, turning to Charles.

 “You’re from America originally?”

 Charles nods, and then grins. “New Yorker, born and raised. I remember when I was a kid, I...” Arthur zones out at this, nodding and smiling at all the appropriate parts. He’s always had the talent of being able to read people’s faces quite easily, so he’s never really had to listen when being talked at instead of being talked to.

 They stay for about a half an hour more before Charles pats his stomach heartily. “Well, Eames, I think it’s about time we got home. You’ve got to do your work, and it’s already late.”

 Eames nods and looks at Arthur, who is getting out bills to put on the table for his meal.

“Oh, you really don’t have to get that, Arthur,” he’s saying, but Arthur ignores him and stands abruptly.

 “Thanks so much for inviting me,” he says to Charles, and then, barely looking at Eames, says, “See you tomorrow.”

 “Do you need a ride?” Eames says, looking concerned. “I have my bike, I could give you a lift.”

It’s really quite tempting, but Arthur cannot imagine what it would be like to sit on a motorcycle with his arms wrapped around Eames, and he doesn’t know if he wants to find out. “Uh, my house is just around the corner, but thanks.” It’s a huge lie, considering his house is on the other side of town, but he supposes he’ll have to deal. “See you around.”

 He leaves as quickly as possible and heads down a side road so Eames won’t see him when he’s walking home.

 It takes him a half an hour, but finally, he arrives at his front door and takes out his keys to unlock it. When he does, his parents are sitting in the entry room, reading their respective books. Arthur’s mom nods at him with a smile, but other than that, there’s no interaction. He goes straight upstairs and starts on Cobb’s essay.

 -

 “I was going to ask you this yesterday, but I guess I forgot,” Eames says, and once again, Arthur has to make himself realize that he’s actually speaking with him. “What redeeming qualities does Macbeth have? I thought about it, and couldn’t find any.”

 Arthur immediately picks himself up out of his slumped position and straightens his back. Then, he considers the question. He doesn’t particularly like Macbeth either, but he respects him. It’s definitely not Shakespeare’s worst.

“Uh... the person or the book?” Arthur asks, before he can make a fool of himself.

 Eames purses his lips. Gorgeous, gorgeous lips. “The person.”

 Arthur mentally nods. He thinks the character himself is much better than the story written about him.

 “He never wanted to kill the king. He was loyal. He had to put up with his bitchy wife--” he stops, blushing intensely. “Uh, sorry,” he says. He hadn’t meant to curse, oh god, this is so bad, he thinks.

 “For what?” Eames asks, looking flustered.

 Arthur is saved by the bell once again, and slumps down onto his desk, ready to sleep away the class.

 Before, he can even close his eyes, Mr. Miller is speaking. “We’re starting a project today, class,” and groans echo around them.

 Fuck, Arthur thinks.

 “Your assignment is to read a book of your choice with a partner I will assign you, and once you finish, you will create a presentation in any form of how one character from that book relates to any of Shakespeare’s characters. You have exactly one month from today. Get together with your partners once I say them and discuss what book you’ll be reading.”

 He starts listing off people, and when Arthur hears his, he is at a loss of whom Charles actually is until Eames is tapping his shoulder and he makes the connection.

 Eames is smiling down softly at him, taller and larger even when sitting, and Arthur wants to curl up and die. He picks himself up once again and avoids looking directly at Eames.

 “You can choose, if you want,” Arthur says, knowing full well what could happen to him if he has an opinion.

As always, Eames surprises him. “It’s not just my decision. You get a say too.”

 Arthur shakes his head. “Whatever you want.”

 Eames ponders on this for a while before tilting his head. “What about Fahrenheit 451? I hear that’s supposed to be good.”

 Arthur does not say that it is his favourite book. Arthur does not say that he’s already read it, that he can recite quotes from it, that he can skim the pages and breathe in that book and know what part he’s smelling. He doesn’t say anything like that at all. He merely nods. “It’ll be done by the due date,” he says, and Eames looks at him, shocked.

 “Of course it will, but you’re making it sound like you’re doing all the work. This is a project, Arthur, we’ll work on it together.” He pulls out his phone to check his calendar, presumably. “How do Tuesdays and Thursdays work for you?”

 Arthur just shrugs. “I don’t have anything.”

 “Alright, it’s settled then. Today after school. Who’s house should we go to?” Eames sounds far too eager to start, and that makes Arthur more than a little bit nervous.

 He shrugs once again, and immediately after realizes his mistake.

 “How about yours, then? Mine’s a bit messy, I’ve just finished unpacking my stuff and there are boxes everywhere,” he suggests, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut in panic.

 “Uh, yeah. Sure,” he says, and opens his binder for some looseleaf. He writes down his address and 4:30 in the upper left hand corner, his handwriting coming out a lot shakier than intended.

“Be sure to pick up a copy.”

 “Already did it,” Eames says, reaching into his bag. “I just bought it yesterday and figured that it would be easy just to do this one.”

 Arthur nods, and Mr. Miller calls for attention once again. He can’t sleep for the rest of the period. He blames an empty stomach.

 -

 He walks home after school, wishing that he had a car or that his parents would pick him up if he called. He doesn’t even dare to ask.

 Around 4 o’clock, he picks up the pace, because his house is still some ways away, and when he finally gets there fifteen minutes later, he sprints upstairs to straighten up his room. He wishes they didn’t have to work in here, because it’s messy and childish and Arthur’s more than a little bit ashamed, but they can’t exactly work in any other room of the house, lest his parents walk in unexpectedly.

 The copy of the book is already on the table next to his bed, so he picks it up and runs his fingers across the spine and cover, reverently holding it to his chest. He hasn’t read it in such a long time, what with all the work he has to do and just not being in the mood, so it’s dusty inside the pages and Arthur wants to apologize, but he knows that would be ridiculous.

 He skims the book over and stops on one of his favourite pages, a page he’s sure they’ll use in their project, and is about to start reading when the doorbell rings. Arthur glances at the clock. Eames is a couple minutes early, which worries Arthur immensely since he told Eames that he lived just up the street from the diner. He fears for his safety before remembering that Eames isn’t another person he has to worry about. Just another person.

 He runs downstairs and opens the door after a moment to see Eames standing outside, fiddling with his bike keys.

 Arthur waits for Eames to speak. Eames just stares at him for a really long time, and Arthur is waiting to be called out on being a liar, but neither of them say anything, so Arthur steps aside to let Eames in.

 “You can just, uh. Put your stuff anywhere,” he says, and Eames sets his keys and bike helmet on the table next to the door. “My room is upstairs,” Arthur continues, and mentally smacks himself. Of course your room is upstairs, he thinks. Where else would your room be?

 Before he can embarrass himself again, he starts up the stairs, and Eames follows suit. In his room, Arthur sits down on the floor, leaning against his bed, and Eames sits in the chair at the desk, turning it so it faces outward.

 “So, I started the book in school today,” Eames says, and shows Arthur the spot he’s at. He’s pretty far along for only having started it today, and admittedly, it’s a short book, but Arthur didn’t quite expect Eames to be a reader. “It’s really good. I just finished the Hearth and the Salamander.”

 Arthur nods and looks down, avoiding Eames's gaze. “I’ve read it before, actually, so if you want to just read it, I can start on the project--”

 “I told you, Arthur, we’re doing this together,” Eames say, cutting him off. “But, I do want your opinion. What character do you think we should compare Montag to?”

 Arthur considers this. “Why does it necessarily have to be Montag? Why can’t it be Clarisse or Mildred?”

 Eames shrugs. “It just seems like the easiest thing to do. Compare the main character of one thing to the main character of another.”

 Arthur just blinks. “But that’s...” He stops and thinks about what he’s going to say. You never know what could happen when the wrong thing comes out of your mouth. “Yeah. Whatever you want. You choose.”

 Eames looks sad for a moment, just looking at Arthur with something that he thinks looks like pity, and then glances down at the book. “Clarisse is interesting. We could compare her to Duncan from Macbeth.”

 Arthur nods, staring at the carpet. “Whatever you want.”

 Eames looks like he’s about to speak again, but instead, he looks down at his book, opens it up, and starts reading. He’s a quick page turner, Arthur notices, watching the way his fingers skim across the cover gently as he’s reading and seeing the way his lips move as he reads, mouthing along the words as if he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

 Arthur considers getting some other work done, like Cobb’s homework, but it’s been such a long time, and all Arthur really wants to do is live and breathe the world that Clarisse and Montag live in, and so he does, ignoring the consequences that could occur once again.

 About an hour later, Eames noisily closes the book. Arthur’s just gotten through the first section, and Eames has his bookmark another third of the way through.

 “I finished the Sieve and the Sand,” he confirms, and Arthur keeps the surprised look off his face.

“Alright,” he says. “Do you want to keep reading? You can stay, if you want,” and for some reason, he doesn’t find himself regretting the offer.

 Eames hesitates. “Am I going to be disturbing anything?” he asks, and Arthur has to remind himself that he’s not somebody he can get attached to.

 “No, not at all,” Arthur says, and so they keep reading.

 By seven thirty, they’re discussing the book, Eames talking animatedly while Arthur sits and listens, trying to avoid eye contact. He stills feels extremely nervous around Eames despite the fact that they’ve been here for three hours and Eames has not tried to dislocate Arthur’s shoulder, make him do his homework, or force his cock down Arthur’s throat. Arthur is extremely happy with this turnout, but still, he tells himself not to get his hopes up.

 “Clarisse reminds me a bit of you, actually,” Eames says, and Arthur looks up.

 “How so?”

 Eames looks up at the ceiling and Arthur can’t help but stare at his collarbone, and he doesn’t know why. There’s just something about Eames that Arthur can’t help but notice every second he’s near him. They haven’t changed positions since they began, but Arthur has the weirdest compulsion to go and sit in Eames's lap in the chair. It’s just a thought, one that Arthur would never entertain, but it’s still coursing through his head, making the image of himself licking Eames's neck more vivid with every second.

 “You’re just. I don’t know, your opinions and thoughts are different than most people’s. You can find the good in Macbeth when all I see is a screwed up bloody story of a guy gone crazy and war and just... shit in general, I guess.”

 Arthur wants to take that as a compliment, but all he can think of are Cobb’s insults about how he’s stupid and different and a fag. Opinions and thoughts aren’t going to get him safety in this world. It’s being normal and straight and smart.

 “Uh, I guess. But she ends up dead, so,” Arthur says dumbly, and fiddles with the broken rubber on his shoes.

 Eames suddenly looks at him very seriously. “I’m sorry. That was a bad comparison. But tell me something, Arthur.”

 Arthur doesn’t look up, afraid of what’s to come. “Yeah.”

 “Do you, like... do you think you’re going to die?”

 Arthur furrows his eyebrows. “Uh, of course. I mean, everybody dies--”

 “Sorry, sorry. Phrased that badly,” Eames apologizes, shaking his head. “I meant now, in school, at home, wherever. Are you afraid you’re going to die prematurely?” He stops again. “That’s sounds so bad. I just. You don’t have to answer that.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything. He looks toward the door, away from Eames, and stares intently at the door knob until Eames coughs nervously.

 “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked that. I’m so stupid, I’m sorry.”

 Arthur turns to him, suddenly angry. “Why did you ask that?”

 Eames grabs the back of the chair with one arm, as if bracing himself. “On my first day, I saw the Cobb kid pushing you around in the locker room after gym, and then, the next day, I was going to my bike and I saw him and a bunch of others talking to you at the dumpster and I didn’t know what I thought, but on my way back, you weren’t there anymore. I don’t know what I was thinking, please just ignore it, please,” he begs, and Arthur considers getting angry, really angry, tear shit apart angry, punching Eames in the face angry, and at the same time he wants to cry and just let everything out.

 The latter wins over, at least partially.

 Arthur starts crying, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his sweatshirt that he wears to cover up his bruises, and just wants to break down and sob, but that’s for later. That’s for alone.

 “Can you leave? Please?” Arthur asks, afraid that if he doesn’t, he’ll die. He won’t ever come out of the room alive again.

 Eames looks almost as sorry as he should be, and that makes Arthur even more angry, upset, depressed, whatever. He gets up and squats down in front of Arthur and says “I’m sorry,” and looks as if he wants to say more, but Arthur doesn’t even know Eames, doesn’t want to know him, and so Eames opens the door and shuts it behind him. Arthur waits until he can hear Eames's bike outside before letting his sobs overtake him, crawls onto his bed, lets his tears fall onto his pillow until he falls asleep on an empty stomach and empty of tears and empty of any feeling at all.

 -

 The next day, Arthur’s parents are gone when he wakes up, so he has to sprint to school and nearly forgets his backpack on the way. While running, he takes out Cobb’s notebook and starts doing his work. He’s finished by the time he gets to school, but he’s late for first period, which is what he needs it for. He walks into class and Cobb gives him a look that says he’s dead and starts shuffling through his papers. Arthur apologizes for being late and then takes a seat near the back, passing Cobb his work while the teacher’s back is turned. A few minutes later, he calls out, “I found it!” and the entire class sighs as their teacher walks over and checks its legitimacy.

 For the rest of the day, Arthur trudges through his classes, sitting as far away from Eames as possible in English and skipping gym altogether. When the day is finally over, he runs home like he ran there and sinks into his bed, falling asleep once again, just like the day before.

 He goes through the weekend doing absolutely nothing except what’s necessary, eating only when he can’t bear to stay in bed, and reading pages at a time of 451.

 When Monday comes, he wakes up during the school’s lunch time and can’t bring himself to care. He stays in bed and eats with his parents who ask how school was and Arthur tells them it was fine even though he can’t remember what day it is, if he even went to school or not, if he did Cobb’s homework, if he saw Eames. He wonders why Eames entered his thought process there, but can’t care enough to think about it thoroughly.

 In the end, Cobb emails him the homework because he wasn’t there, apparently, politely worded, Here is wut u missed 2day Artie hope u feel betr, plus an attachment that means more mindless scribbling. He starts on the work and ends up falling asleep doing it, and when he wakes up the next day, he makes a conscious decision for once, not to go to school.

 He gets up to go to the bathroom at one point and sees the dark circles under his eyes, defining him, invading him, and he washes his face in an attempt to make them go away, but he knows that they won’t be leaving anytime soon.

 He steps on the scale just for the sake of normality and sees that he’s lost five pounds since two weeks ago, lost part of himself since two weeks ago, and then goes back to his room to sleep more.

 He only wakes because of the sound of the doorbell and wonders who it could be, because nobody ever comes to his house. When he goes downstairs to answer it, he doesn’t bother to check the peephole, and that’s a huge mistake, because it ends up being Cobb with a furious expression on his face.

 Arthur stands there, caught off guard for about a minute before stepping aside and letting him in. He is his cousin, after all, and if he didn’t he would probably regret it later when Cobb told his parents about his cousin’s misbehavior.

 “Hi,” Arthur says nervously, and Cobb scowls.

 “Do you have my work?” he demands, and Arthur nods, terrified.

 He runs upstairs to retrieve it, and when he comes back down, Cobb is sitting on his couch, flipping through TV channels. He hands the piece of paper over and Cobb swipes it from him, glancing it over.

 “Good,” he says, and then proceeds to ignore Arthur entirely.

 Arthur is standing by the staircase, watching Cobb for what feels like an eternity, scared completely shitless, when the doorbell rings once again and Arthur can’t contain everything that he’s feeling.

 He goes to the door and makes sure to look through the peephole this time around. Standing there is Eames, keys in helmet, helmet in hands, looking considerably more nervous than he did the last time he was in this position.

 Arthur doesn’t open the door right away. He stands there for almost a full minute before Cobb says, “Aren’t you going to get that?” and then Arthur has to.

 Eames stares at him for a moment before asking quietly, “Can I come in?”

 “Why?” Arthur asks, and regrets it.

 “It’s a Tuesday,” Eames says, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut so tightly it hurts before backing away and revealing his living room.

 Eames sees Cobb and stares at him for what feels like hours, Cobb staring back intently for what feels like just as long, and Arthur wants to vomit a little bit.

 “What are you doing here?” Eames asks audaciously, and Cobb squints.

 “I could say the same thing to you.”

 The silence stretches on.

 “We’re partners on a project,” Eames says finally.

 “He’s my cousin,” Cobb replies back quickly, and Eames grinds his teeth.

 “Well, we have to work,” Eames bites back, and Cobb stands, arms raised defensively, and picks up the papers on the couch.

 “Well, I suppose I should go, then,” he says sarcastically, grabbing his bag off the floor anyway. “I’ll see you later, Artie,” Cobb says almost kindly, and Arthur wants to kiss Eames in that moment as Cobb slams his way out the back door.

 “Thank you so much,” Arthur whispers, his hands shaking nervously as he memorizes the wooden panels on the ground.

 “Is he-- is he really your cousin?” Eames asks, his voice soft.

 “Second cousin, technically,” Arthur says, and he hears Eames exhale angrily.

 “And he still does all those horrible things to you?” Eames grits out.

 Arthur blinks nervously. “What do you mean?”

 “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Arthur. I’ve asked around. People see things.”

 In that moment, Arthur feels contempt for all the things that people have seen and the times when they didn’t do anything. He can hear ringing in his ears and he wishes that he was never born, that he was dead, that he was normal, and he chokes out through blurry tears, “How could you?”

 Eames looks startled. “How could I what?”

 “I made it clear that I didn’t want to talk about it before and then you go and dig around until you find things, know things about me that I don’t want you to know when I-- You--” And he falls to his knees on the living room floor and cries into his hands pathetically, stupidly, horribly.

 Before he can comprehend what’s happening, Eames's hands are on his shoulders, soft and comforting, but all he can think about are Robert Fischer’s dirty fingers and his thick cock in his mouth and so Arthur throws up into Eames's lap like an animal who can’t control himself.

 Eames does not say anything, does not comment on it, just stands up and walks into the kitchen, leaving Arthur trembling on the hardwood floor. He waits there, vomits again, and then lies down on his side, facing the wall. He closes his eyes so he can’t see Eames cleaning up his vomit, but he knows it’s happening right next to his head, Eames's muted breaths coming from above him.

 Arthur wishes he had never existed.

 -

 He wakes up in his bed and he can tell that it’s dark outside from the lack of natural light in the room, and then catches sight of Eames. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of Arthur’s desk, facing away from the bed.

 Arthur doesn’t know how Eames knows he’s awake, but without looking at him, Eames asks, “Do you think Montag loved Clarisse?”

 “I don’t know,” Arthur answers honestly. “He was married, he said he loved Mildred, but...”

“It’s not something we can ever really find out, right?” Eames asks, and Arthur doesn’t know if the question is rhetorical or not. He doesn’t say anything, just to be sure.

 They fall back into silence, and just as Arthur is about to fall asleep again, Eames says, “I guess that’s a pretty shit metaphor.”

 “Metaphor for what?” Arthur asks.

 Then Eames turns around and Arthur realizes that he has never known a more attractive person in his entire life.

 “I think you know,” Eames says, and Arthur doesn’t, not really.

 He shrugs as much as he can while lying on his side in bed. “No, sorry.”

 Arthur can’t decipher the expression on Eames's face, but he knows it’s not one that everybody gets to see.

 “I know that we’ve known each other for like a week, but I like you, Arthur,” Eames admits, bashful.

 Arthur is stunned. Nobody has ever liked him in his entire life, not that he knows of. Because really, who would like him? He’s just a scrawny kid that doesn’t talk and keeps his head down. He keeps his head down for a reason. He keeps his head down so things like this don’t happen.

 “Me?” he asks quietly.

 Eames twists his lips to one side. “Yeah. You.”

 Arthur doesn’t really know what to say. “Why?”

 “Because you’re smart and you notice things that people don’t and you have great opinions and you’re different.”

 And that’s totally weird, because those are all of the things that got Arthur into this life ruining situation in the first place.

 “Oh,” he says.

 “Oh?”

 “Oh.”

 Arthur rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling for a bit.

 “I don’t really know if I can, like, do anything about that,” he says regrettably.

 “What do you mean?” Eames asks, and he doesn’t sound upset or angry, just curious. Maybe a little disappointed.

 “I don’t know if I can be in a... relationship, I guess. With another person. Anyone. Not just you. I don’t know if it’s something I’m capable of,” he explains, and Eames slides closer to him, gazing at the side of his head.

 “That’s alright,” he responds, and Arthur sighs.

 “Especially with... what you did,” he continues, and he sees Eames nod out of the corner of his eye.

 “I get that. I shouldn’t have done it. I just wanted to help,” he says, and Arthur gets it too.

 “But... I want to be friends with you, if that’s possible,” Arthur decides, and turns his head in Eames's direction. Eames smiles at him gently and moves to put his hand on a part of Arthur’s body, but then decides better of it.

 “Yeah, of course.”

 And that’s that, Arthur supposes.

 -

 It’s not quite that simple. In school, Eames starts walking with Arthur to class, finding Arthur before he can go to his usual eating place and dragging him to the cafeteria, just making him talk more in general. It’s different from what Arthur’s used to, and soon, he’s talking to people other than Eames at the lunch table and he feels better. After that day in Arthur’s living room, Cobb stopped contacting him. He guesses it has something to do with Eames, but he’s not completely sure what he did. He’s too afraid to ask.

 After school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, they go over to Arthur’s house and work on their project. Eames settles himself perfectly into Arthur’s childish space and it doesn’t even feel awkward and Arthur wonders if this is what having friends must be like.

 They decide to do a graphical layout of the similarities between Clarisse and King Duncan, plus write an essay, during which Arthur learns that Eames can’t spell for shit and wants to kiss him so badly that it hurts but can’t bring himself to do so.

 They take frequent breaks, from entire days to hours, talking about books and movies and just anything they can think of. One day in the middle of the month, Eames brings over Forrest Gump.

 “You said you’d never seen it,” Eames explains, holding it out. “I thought that was a bit of a crime.”

 Arthur blinks, stunned. He takes the DVD and turns it over in his hands. “Do you... do you want to watch it?”

 Eames grins. “That’s why I brought it, yeah?”

 So Arthur puts it in and settles on the bed next to Eames, just a few inches separating them. He wants to lean on him but knows that it might be going too far, that no matter how much he actually does like Eames, he can’t go through with anything, he really just can’t.

 At one point, he glances to the left and sees Eames mouthing along with the words, smiling slightly at certain parts. Arthur feels his throat close up tightly.

 At the end, Arthur cries. Eames laughs at him for crying and Arthur shoves at him, which happens to be just as successful as pushing against the Chrysler building.

 “But it’s happy!” Eames urges, jokingly offering Arthur his sleeve to cry on. “They get together and everything is right in the world and people die and it’s not a big deal!”

 Arthur manages to raise an eyebrow. “Are you telling me that if I died today that it wouldn’t be a big deal?”

 Eames quickly sobers up. “That’s not what I meant.”

 Arthur wipes a few of his tears and manages a smile. “You can no longer tell me that my crying is not warranted.”

 Eames relents. “You liked it, though?”

 Arthur nods with a small smile. “It was good.”

 “I’m glad.”

 -

 Eames starts touching Arthur’s back and at first, Arthur is so unnerved by it that he doesn’t talk all through lunch because of the one second occurrence at the beginning of the period. But eventually, he begins to lighten up and soon, Eames is guiding Arthur by his back throughout the halls, and then he can hold his shoulder to steady himself and run his fingers along the back of his neck while they’re working because he still likes him, after all.

 One Friday, Arthur is at his locker putting his books away when Eames comes up from behind him.

 “Hey,” he says, smiling, and Arthur can’t help but smile back. “Do you want to go get something to eat?”

 Arthur hesitates. He’s considering his options, and he can’t really think of anything that could go wrong. Just food. With a friend. He nods eventually and Eames’s fading smile turns blinding.

 “Great! Where do you want to go? Pizza? Whatever.”

 Arthur laughs at Eames’s enthusiasm and shrugs. “I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

 Eames shakes his head. “No, you have to choose. I’m not letting you out of this one.”

 Arthur purses his lips and closes his locker, slipping his bag over his shoulder. “How about Chinese, then?”

 Arthur starts to feel comfortable and eventually, they start hanging out on Fridays too. They go to get Chinese food and Arthur lets Eames pretend it’s a date even though it’s not and Arthur pretends that he’s not in love even though he is.

 Even his parents notice the difference in him. At dinner, they don’t ask him how his day was, but what he did, why it was good, who he talked to. Arthur never gives them the full story, just little bits and pieces, and that seems to satisfy them enough that they don’t ask more than necessary.

 -

 He ends up bringing Eames to his little stream that he goes to sometimes and Arthur wishes something could happen, is closer and closer to giving in to desire every single day.

 Eames curls up on the rock Arthur usually sits on and beckons Arthur to sit next to him. There’s not a lot of room if Arthur doesn’t want to fall in, so the sit so close together, almost close enough to touch, close enough that when Arthur reaches down to fix the bottom of his jeans, he accidentally grazes Eames’s leg as well. When he sees Eames smile, he tries not to do the same and fails, glancing away shyly when Eames runs a hand gently across Arthur’s back.

 “It’s nice here,” Eames says, looking around hesitantly. “It’s like sitting down on a rock during the middle ages and not knowing whether or not somebody else knows about it. Now we have all the technology to know every single rock and tree and the whole world and I guess that’s good, but it’s also boring. Nothing new.”

Arthur nods but doesn’t answer further than that. He never considered that he’s never seen anybody else here. It’s a nice thought, but he can’t help but wonder who else has been here, who else comes here when they need to think, who else brings the people they’re in love with here, who else doesn’t know what to think about their lives. It’s a little sad. Sad enough that Arthur rests his head against Eames’s shoulder when Eames runs his hand across Arthur’s back again.

They go there after they eat their weekly Chinese food. It’s nice knowing that there’s something that he and Eames share that nobody else realizes that they have. It’s a good secret to have.

A lot of the time Arthur will catch Eames staring at him. He doesn’t mind it, not much anyway, but he wishes that he could stare back. He wishes that he had enough courage to do anything really. He wishes that he wasn’t so fucked up.

-

They hand in their project at the end of the given month and when they get it back a week later, they have a large A- stamped on the page and Eames hugs Arthur close to his body and buries his face in his hair and Arthur wants to cry, but this time, he’s not even sure why.

But of course, nothing can stay great forever.

-

They’re eating Chinese one Friday when Eames gets a phone call. It’s the ringtone designated to his father, and Arthur just watches, smiling as Eames picks up and greets his father in a tone that is both rude and fond.

Arthur can hear small snippets of words from across the table like ‘mom’ and ‘home’ and he watches as Eames's face falls incrementally with every passing second.

He finally says “Alright,” and hangs up after a few minutes.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks, and Eames shakes his head.

“Nothing. Just. Nothing important,” he says, and he certainly doesn’t look like someone who’s just been lectured on ‘nothing important’.

Arthur lets it go, because he’s still not the type to push conversations, and just looks down at his noodles nervously.

“Actually, shit, sorry, there is something wrong,” Eames blurts out.

 Arthur looks at him and hopes he puts on an expression that properly displays that Eames can tell him anything, everything.

 Eames looks down and Arthur follows his gaze to his clenched fists in the table cloth and knows that this isn’t just a normal, every day bad. This is a horrible bad.

 “My dad. We moved out here, because, you know, he’s a citizen, and I wanted to see America, and my parents had just broken it off, so. You know. But. I think my parents want to get back together,” he says, and looks straight through Arthur instead of at him.

 “Okay,” Arthur says, ignoring the inevitable truth. “What does that mean?”

 “It means I’m moving back to England,” Eames says, and for the first time in a long time, Arthur cries.

 -

 They spend every second they can out of school together, but that’s only the time they’ve already been spending together anyway, because Eames works at his dad’s motor shop and they have to close up and Arthur’s falling again, he can feel it.

 “I have about two weeks,” Eames says one night, sitting across from Arthur on his bedroom floor. “Till the thing.”

 “Yeah,” Arthur says, because if he says more, he’ll cry again. “Yeah, I know.”

 A lot of the time they have is spent just talking, getting to know each other. Arthur learns that Eames adores his mother and misses her every day but thinks that she’s not worth leaving here for. Arthur hears the implied ‘leaving you for’ in there, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He tells Eames about how he hates his parents for not caring and for disregarding the fact that he’s gay, not believing him, shunning him, and about how before Eames, he didn’t like anyone or do anything. Eames touches him a lot more, mostly platonically, even going so far as to hold his hand in private, and Arthur finds that he absolutely loves it.

 Two days before Eames has to leave, he arrives at Arthur’s house ready to break cement with his fists.

 “Why?” he asks nobody, pacing around Arthur’s room as Arthur sits cross legged on his own bed, watching unhappily. “Why did they have to get back together? I wasn’t even upset when they broke up, did they just have to do this?”

 Arthur stands and steadies him, grabs his arms and just holds him there until he can feel Eames's breathing even out to a normal speed and then he hugs him, hard and tight, warm against Eames who seems to radiate heat.

 Eames just stays quiet and hugs back, and Arthur wishes that he had said yes back when he could, back when it wasn’t too late.

 -

 “I’m going to miss you, you know,” Eames says to Arthur on the day that he’s leaving, in Arthur’s living room, sitting on the couch.

 “I know,” Arthur says solemnly. “I’m going to miss you too.”

 Arthur moves closer to him, resting his head on Eames's bicep. “Promise you’ll call as soon as you get in?”

 “Yes,” Eames says, and there’s not much else.

 Last chance, Arthur thinks, and so he turns Eames so he’s facing him, puts one hand on Eames's stubbly cheek, and leans in, pressing his lips against Eames's gently.

 He doesn’t suppose Eames is surprised, especially with how affectionate they’ve been lately, and so he just presses forward more, taking in all of Eames's movements like they’re the last thing he’ll ever feel. He runs his tongue against Eames's bottom lip, and he’s never kissed anyone before, not like this, and so Eames helps him, wants him, loves him.

 They’ve been kissing for only about a minute or so when they can hear a horn honking outside, signaling Charles’ arrival.

 Eames pulls back, and then moves in for one last gentle kiss.

 “I love you,” he says, and Arthur can feel the wetness in his eyes falling down his cheeks.

 “I love you too,” Arthur says, and buries his face in Eames's neck one last time. Eames hugs him and stands, glancing back once before closing the door with a finality that shouldn’t be real, shouldn’t exist in Arthur’s world.

 -

 The next day, Arthur goes to school and everything is worse than he’d ever imagined it could be.

First period with Cobb, his desk gets tipped over and his papers get trampled and he can hear the laughter and it’s like Eames was never here in the first place.

 During English, Mr. Miller tells them to pair up, and Arthur automatically glances to his left only to find the seat empty and a hole in his chest. He works alone, and at the end of the period, he doesn’t just think about dying, he wishes he were dead.

 He skips gym in fear of getting beaten to a pulp and goes to his locker instead, taking out all the books he needs to do both his own homework and Cobb’s, as he’s assuming he’s going to have to.

 Arthur has one of the nicest lockers in the school, very tall, and wide enough to fit all of his stuff in, which not a lot of lockers have. He is very fortunate to have gotten it, because very few of them actually exist in the school, but Arthur wishes that he just had a normal one, because that’s what he wants to be.

 He knew he always had good reason.

 After the period ends, so does the school day, the last two periods cut off because of the schedule. Arthur stands and stretches, having sat there in the same period for nearly an hour, and prepares to head home when he’s taken by the space in between his shoulder blades and shoved into the locker next to his.

 “This is for the past few weeks,” Cobb whispers into the ear that’s not squished against the wall. Then, to Arthur’s absolute horror, he shoves him into the locker and slams it shut violently.

 “Don’t say a fucking word,” Cobb warns through the slits by Arthur’s neck, and Arthur doesn’t think he could even if he was allowed. Even though the locker is one of the widest in the school, it’s not made to fit a person, and Arthur is having trouble expanding his chest enough to take a breath, and he can see Cobb’s silhouette standing outside, almost as if he were guarding it.

 Arthur tries to focus on getting shallow breaths into his lungs, and so he doesn’t notice when the hallways quiet down and Cobb is no longer standing there, watching him. Arthur tries to fiddle with the lock on the inside with what little room he has, but there’s no way to open it.

 He starts to panic. He bangs around and cries out and then just cries, trying to breathe, trying to sob, but he can’t manage it. His knees hurt from being pressed against the side for too long and from holding himself up, and he doesn’t understand how he could even be in as much pain as he’s in currently.

 He calms himself down eventually, and then waits. He waits for a noise, and voice, anything, but nothing comes.

 It seems like hours before anything happens. The lights in the hallway have all been turned off and Arthur curses the fact that he didn’t take the opportunity to yell out when he could have.

 It seems like he’s been there forever when his phone rings. It’s Eames's ringtone, and Arthur wants nothing more at this very moment than to talk to him.

 He can’t reach. The phone stops ringing and Arthur cries. Then, he falls asleep.

 -

 When he wakes up, the lights in the hallway have turned back on. He tries to call out, but his voice is hoarse and dry and he is unable to say anything. His entire body aches like nothing he’s ever felt before, and he dry sobs until he hears noise again, students going to their classes, passing through the halls, happy, oblivious.

 He bangs around in the locker, but he can’t move too much, so it doesn’t make much noise. He figures it’s around fifth period when somebody finally hears him.

 The locker door opens and a janitor is staring at him, mouth hanging open in astonishment. Arthur tumbles out and lands on his already stiff shoulder, taking in as many deep breaths as he possibly can.

 They call an ambulance. Arthur falls asleep while waiting for it to come, and wakes only briefly to swallow something of some sort. It’s probably water. He can’t really tell.

 He misses Eames.

 -

 Arthur wakes up in a hospital room to redness under his eyelids. He doesn’t open them for fear that he’ll have to talk, explain himself, but he doesn’t hear a sound besides the footsteps outside his door, passing by every few minutes.

 Finally, he gains the courage to blink open his eyes and look around. He is alone in the room, save for the silent TV up in the corner. He’s almost happy that he doesn’t have to deal with anyone for a moment, but he realizes that people should be here-- his parents, perhaps?

He ignores the pang of sadness that lances through him in that moment. He wouldn’t have expected them to show up. Maybe they already came and when the doctors said he was alright, they left.

 He stares at the TV for a few minutes before he rolls over, having gotten nothing out of it. He stares out the window and watches people enter and exit the hospital, and when his shoulder starts to hurt, he turns upward and stares at the ceiling. It’s white and boring, and he wishes that he had something or someone to entertain him, Eames, preferably. He keeps wheezing and his chest hurts more than he can bear.

 Eventually, a nurse walks in, and Arthur shuts his eyes as soon as the door opens. He doesn’t want to talk to anybody, just wants to wallow in his own self pity, so he goes limp and pretends to sleep and the nurse takes his blood pressure and puts a stethoscope to his chest. He tries to keep his breathing shallow, but he can tell that the nurse knows he’s awake, so he gives up and breathes normally, keeping his eyes shut.

 She walks around and does other things around the room, and Arthur just listens. Now that he has a reason to pay attention to his own consciousness, he realizes that everything hurts. His knees hurt from being pressed against the same place for too long, and his shoulders ache. He’s had many things dislocated before, so he can tell that his left was out of its socket recently.

Now that he really concentrates, it’s hard to move it at all. He has a major headache, and he’s trying to restrain his coughs as much as possible because it hurts to just breathe afterwards.

The nurse leaves after a few minutes, and in that moment, Arthur feels more alone than he ever has in his entire life. He doesn’t have Eames, he doesn’t have any friends, he doesn’t have his parents, and he doesn’t even have that nurse.

 He feels heavy in a way that makes it difficult to think and breathe and just be, in any sort of situation. He’s felt like this before, but he’s learned to ignore it, let it be what it is, get rid of it altogether. Ever since Eames came along, he forgot what it had felt like. He remembered not only to be there, but also to be happy.

 He doesn’t know what he’ll do now. He doesn’t know if he’ll do anything.

 -

 Arthur is discharged from the hospital two days later. He is given an inhaler that he has to take every twelve hours and his arm is put in a sling. He still has trouble walking straight because of his knees, and his lip is split right down the middle from where he’s been worrying it with his teeth.

 His parents came to visit him once a piece in the two days that he was conscious. His mother came first after work for an hour, and his father second, during his lunch for half of the time that his mother came. When the nurse asks him about it, he just says they’re always busy and nothing else, so she leaves it alone.

 His mother got a few hours off work so she could drive him home and get him situated, but the entire time, she tries to joke about how much work she has, how she wishes that she could have just called him a cab.

 Arthur keeps his head down.

 He gets into bed the second he gets home, his face in the middle of the pillow, making it much harder to breathe than he would have liked. But ultimately, it’s better than having to see anything else.

 He sleeps throughout the day and doesn’t bother taking his inhaler, since why should he be able to breathe? Why should he breathe if he doesn’t care, doesn’t want to? He just wants to end it.

 The only person who legitimately cares about him is in another country and it’s likely that he’ll never see him again. He doesn’t have his phone number since he lost his phone after the incident, doesn’t have a Facebook, doesn’t even have his email.

 He sleeps through the entire week he has off and doesn’t even think to find it strange that not once did somebody ask him what happened.

 -

 It’s a week after he returns to school that he decides to end it.

 He has his reasons-- he’s not being selfish. He hasn’t talked to Eames in two weeks, can’t breathe without assistance, doesn’t want to go to school, and doesn’t want to go back to the hospital, even though he needs it desperately.

 He thinks he has a couple broken ribs, he’s positive that his shoulder has been dislocated again, and he has a limp so bad in his left knee that he needs to stop walking every minute or so to rest it.

 His parents aren’t home enough to notice, and even if they were, he doesn’t think they would do anything about it unless he begged.

 He doesn’t feel much anymore aside from the all consuming depression that Eames's departure has left him in, and it’s pathetic, he knows it’s absolutely pathetic, but it’s not like he can help it.

He knew it was coming as soon as he let himself get attached. He knew this would happen.

He prepares for a week.

 He gets pills enough to kill a horse, painkillers, scripts he buys off of people from the back of his school, everything in his parent’s medicine cabinet from sleeping to antidepressants, and finally, Warfarin and razors.

 He’s done his research, and he knows with just a couple of these and a slit to his wrist, he’ll be dead within hours. He hopes it won’t be painful, but in the back of his head, he knows it will be, and that’s why he puts it off for so long.

 On the day he decides to do it, Ariadne, a girl from the table he used to sit at with Eames, comes up to him. She puts both hands on his shoulders, and he flinches back, in both pain and fear.

She takes her hands off regretfully, and he slumps back down into his usual posture.

 “Arthur,” she says, and her tone of voice makes Arthur very nervous. “Are you alright?”

Something Arthur has been doing for all of his life is telling people that he’s alright. He’s fine, he’s good, he’s just tired. On the list of things he does best, saying those things is on the top.

 But for some reason, he can’t tap into that skill. He can’t get to that one part of him that believes that he will be fine one day, and so instead, he just shakes his head and whispers, “No.”

 It takes every inch of him that he has left to say that word. When Ariadne’s expression turns from stern and concerned to utterly destroyed, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do. She takes him in a firm hug and he starts coughing, tears welling up in his eyes.

 “Come over to my house today after school. We’ll take my car, I’ll make you something to eat,” she says, and Arthur can’t find it in him to make up an excuse. “You look like you haven’t eaten in years.”

 He does feel rather hungry now that he thinks about it. He nods solemnly, not looking her in the eyes, and she gives him another, gentler hug.

 Arthur plans to avoid her after school, so he goes to the nurse instead of gym, faking a stomach ache. They take a single look at his face and make him go lie down. He falls asleep on the uncomfortable cot in an instant, and when he wakes up, it’s to Ariadne’s knocking on the door.

 He sits up, holding back a groan, and waves her in. She doesn’t look happy, exactly, but it seems like she is trying to keep on a cheerful face for Arthur. It doesn’t quite work, just reminding him of all the things he wishes he had. He just wants to go home and be done with it, but now that’s not even possible.

 “How are you feeling?” she asks.

 Arthur just shakes his head.

 She puts on a determined face and tugs him off the cot. “You’re coming with me.”

 -

 They go back to her house, just as she said, and the entire time, she talks at him, trying to distract him.

 When they get to her house, she immediately makes him a cup of tea, which makes him think of Eames, which doesn’t help at all. She doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to talk as she makes various dishes of eclectic sorts of foods. She sets it down in front of him, and when he makes no move to go for it, a glare is shot his way.

 “Eat,” Ariadne demands, and Arthur takes a cracker immediately, not wanting to start anything. He chews slowly, finding it hard to get anything down his throat. His stomach grumbles noisily, and he’s sure Ariadne takes it to mean he’s starving, so she pushes the plate closer to him. This is not the case, because Arthur just feels sick.

 After he takes his second cracker, Ariadne continues talking. Arthur can tell that she’s trying to avoid all mention of Eames, and Arthur thinks, Would she have his phone number? He’s too terrified to ask, too mortified to admit that he’s lost it, so he says nothing.

 It’s around five when Arthur excuses himself, saying that he has to get home for dinner. In reality, he doesn’t want to do anything. He’s given up on the pills tonight, because his parents will be home by seven and if he’s lucky, Arthur will be home right before them. Ariadne looks distressed that he’s leaving, but he assures her that he’ll be at school tomorrow and they can talk then, and he can’t find it in him to break that promise.

 He limps home, and when he gets there, as carefully as he can, he lays himself down on his bed and falls straight to sleep.

 -

 The second time he decides to do it, it’s three days later. He’s going to skip gym, get home, take the pills and... do the rest. He’s never been one for cutting, but it seems necessary in this situation for the full effect. He always felt like it was for the weak, and he was never weak, not until now.

 He gets out of class and doesn’t bother going to his locker, just goes straight to the parking lot.

There he sees Robert Fischer, and his plan is ruined.

 Fischer ambles up to him, and as he gets closer, Arthur can see that the whites of his eyes are no longer white, but entirely red.

 Fuck.

 “Arthur,” he says, and he sounds relatively calm, but that might just be the weed talking. “Where’s my work been, lately?”

 Arthur has a reflex, and it’s one he can’t really ignore anymore. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again--”

 “Yeah, you always fucking say that, but then this always happens,” he says, advancing far closer than Arthur is comfortable with. “So, what are we going to do about it?”

 Arthur says nothing, staring up at him with terrified eyes. He knows what they’re going to do about it.

 “Why don’t you come with me?” Fischer says, and Arthur knows that he doesn’t really have an option.

 Because he has a deathwish, he says, “Why should I?” and Fischer immediately points to Cobb, leaning on his car, nonchalant, looking on with disinterest.

 Arthur nods, because even though Fischer has some reservations about what he does to people, Cobb has none.

 He gets in the backseat of Fischer’s car and Cobb waves as they drive away, happy and high, and Fischer waves back.

 He takes Arthur back to the same place as last time, except this time when he’s shoved out of the car and onto the road, there’s no Charles to come and save him.

 -

 Arthur wakes to something cold and wet being pressed against his neck. Tree bark digs into his back, and he realizes that he seems to have developed a habit of falling asleep after things like this happen.

 He jolts awake and stands, but immediately falls back down in pain. Before he can register what just happened, his face is covered in slobber and there is a dog in between his legs, a paw on his hip.

 “What the--” Arthur begins, but is quickly cut off by a bark and is wacked in the side by a wagging tail as the dog jumps off of him and proceeds to run in circles.

 Arthur doesn’t know what is happening.

 “It’s a dog,” he says to nobody in particular. He doesn’t know what kind of dog it is, and it looks quite like a beagle, but it’s too big, and its snout is too long. It has the same coloring on top of an otherwise white body, from what Arthur can see in the dark as it scrambles for its own tail.

 He begins to get up slowly and he completely plans on leaving the dog there, but as he walks down the hill that he once walked down with Charles, the dog weaves its way through his legs, even adjusting slightly for his limp.

 He leaves the forest some time later, the dog still literally at his heels and gets to a point where he just wants to kick it and leave it forever. He’s not in the mood and he can’t even go through with his plan now since it’s so late. He supposes he should thank Fischer for that, because for all he wants to be done with everything, he doesn’t know what would happen if he died, who would care, who wouldn’t, what Eames would think.

 He begins to walk home, and when it becomes evident that the dog isn’t going to leave him alone, he squats painfully down next to it.

 “You’re a right little twit, you know that?” he says to it, reminding himself a little too much of Eames. “Now, let’s see...” he ducks down further, “boy.”

 He stares at him for a long time before cursing. He lets himself lean on one hand as he rubs the top of the dog’s head with the other.

 His eyes are blue, just like Eames's. It’s not the same shade, but it’s close enough, and Arthur has never pined for someone so much in his entire life.

 He decides to name him Charlie, for both Eames and Eames's father.

 When he gets home, all the lights are off but both cars are in the driveway so he figures his parents must be asleep. He picks up Charlie and opens the door as quietly as possible, closing it behind him and tiptoeing up the stairs as best as he can with his limp.

 When in his room, he lets Charlie down and makes a little bed on the floor with a few of the extra pillows he has on his bed. He knows this is a bad idea, knows it’s never going to turn up well with his parents, but right now, all he needs is a friend, and he can’t be bothered to worry about anything else.

 Charlie immediately cuddles up in the makeshift bed Arthur makes for him which is a surprise. He doesn’t have any tags or a collar, but he seems too well trained to be a wild dog. Arthur thinks that maybe he’ll put up signs around the town, but disregards the idea quickly. He’s far too selfish to give him back now.

 For the first time in a long time, he falls asleep without tears on his cheeks.

 -

 The third time is simple enough. He says he’s going to, goes to school, and when he comes back, Charlie is so happy to see him that Arthur spends hours just playing with him and petting him. He’s never had a pet before, so this is incredible for him, having someone who just loves him unconditionally.

 He feeds him leftover chicken from the fridge and then takes him for a walk with a piece of rope he found in the garage. When he gets back, he decides to look up Charlie’s breed, and when he types the description into Google, it comes back with English Foxhound. He plays with Charlie for hours, the pills on his desk lingering in the back of his mind.

 -

 He’s leaving the house with Charlie on his rope one day when his mother’s car pulls into the driveway, three hours early. Fear spikes through him, and with good reason.

 It’s not hard for his parents not to notice that they have a dog in this house. Charlie is relatively quiet, and Arthur’s parents never go into his room anyway which is where Charlie predominantly stays, so they have no reason to.

 Her anger, in Arthur’s opinion, is extremely warranted.

 He manages to convince her that he’s clean and trained, but that doesn’t dissipate her anger much. She’s still having a conniption two hours later when Arthur’s dad comes home and is even more angry than she is.

 He brings Charlie to the humane society. He wonders distantly, when he’s not resisting the urge to cry, if he should just stop getting attached to things and people in general.

He thinks it would be better if he just killed himself.

 -

 Arthur goes and visits Charlie three times a week after school. By now, the people at the front desk know his name, and he’s happier there than anywhere else at this point. But he’s still as heavy as ever, more sad than anyone he knows, unhealthily skinny, and resisting the urge to buy coverup for the bags under his eyes. He doesn’t sleep much these days, not with the lingering thought that Charlie could be adopted at any point, that he hasn’t talked to Eames in a month and a half, the pills haunting him endlessly.

 He’s decided this time for sure. He’s not going to back out.

 His parents are working this Saturday, and nothing can prevent him from the swallow that is going to end his life.

 Arthur wakes up that morning and stares at the empty spot where Charlie would be, his bed where Eames could be, and the translucent pill bottle with all the colors mingled together inside.

It’s 12 o’clock when he finally rises from his bed and stands in front of his desk.

 Nothing can stop him. Nothing will stop him.

 Except, perhaps, the doorbell.

 He considers answering, but what if it’s Cobb? It’s been known to happen. What if it’s a neighbor that noticed something? He can’t take the risk.

 He knows he’s lying to himself.

 He limps downstairs and opens the door without checking the peephole, because since when is life worth living without a little forgetfulness and stupidity? The last time this happened, it was just Eames, and it’s not likely that the person showing up on his door on a Saturday a month after he’s left is--

 Eames.

 He stands there, not nearly as haggard as Arthur, but still looking more than a little defeated.

Arthur stares for an inordinate amount of time, at his hair, his lips, his face, oh god, how he missed that face, and just taking him all in, Eames, Eames.

 After lots of staring on each of their parts, Eames says, “Can I come in?”

 “Why?” Arthur asks, remembering a conversation quite like this from a million years ago.

 “Because it’s not a Tuesday, and I love you,” Eames says and Arthur starts crying.

 “Yeah,” Arthur says, wiping away tears. “Yeah, you can always come in, Eames.”

 The next thing he knows, he’s being lifted off of his feet in a hug, in a bone crushing, brilliant hug from Eames, and Arthur didn’t know that he could feel this good.

 But at the same time, his ribs hurt quite a considerable amount.

 “Put me down,” he begs, and Eames grins at him, placing him back on the ground.

 Arthur sucks in a huge breath, and can’t even keep the smile on his face for Eames as he grips his chest in pain.

 Eames's grin drops almost as soon as it appeared as he stares at Arthur, arms wrapped around himself like it’s the only thing holding him together.

 “Arthur,” Eames says, “Arthur, what’s wrong?”

 “I need my inhaler,” he wheezes heavily, and Eames's eyebrows furrow.

 “Where is it?”

 “Upstairs,” Arthur says. “Help me?”

 Eames puts one hand around Arthur’s waist and leads him to the stairs where he practically lifts his feet off the ground to carry him up. Arthur has always known that Eames is strong, but he never quite understood the extent of how strong he actually is.

 Once at the top of the stairs, Eames puts Arthur down and keeps a light hold on him as they walk to his room, as if he can’t not be touching him at any point. In the room, Arthur digs around his desk drawer for a barely used inhaler, and takes two long drags of it with a minute in between. Although he can feel his chest loosening up quite a bit, he’s not sure what helps him more, the inhaler, or Eames's familiar touch in between his shoulder blades.

 After he feels confident in his ability to continue breathing, he sets the inhaler back down on the desk, and in doing so, accidentally knocks over the open Warfarin bottle, spilling an array of colored pills all around the floor.

 He stares at the pills in horror and then looks at Eames, and Eames's eyes are closed tightly shut, as if trying to ignore them, trying to evade asking inevitable questions.

 After an eternity, Eames bends down and picks up the bottle. He’s squatting on the floor, turning the bottle in one hand, and he lets out a groan as he gathers all of them up and puts them back in, pill by pill.

 “Arthur,” he begins, still on the floor, staring at the label. “Why do you have Warfarin?”

 “Heart attack?” he tries lamely.

 “Arthur.”

 “Mix up,” Arthur says, trying to recover. “The pharmacy gave me the wrong--”

 “Then why are there different pills in here?” Eames counters, still not looking at him.

 “I did that.”

 “I know you did, but it was clearly not an accident.”

 Arthur decides to shut up.

 “What were you doing with these pills?” Eames asks, finally turning around. He does not look happy, but he doesn’t really look like anything else either. If anything, he seems a little nervous, scared.

 “I wasn’t happy, Eames,” Arthur says, avoiding the actual words. “You don’t know what’s happened to me since you’ve been gone.”

 Eames's expression slowly turns to horrified, as if he had been in denial about what Arthur was actually going to do. “You... were going to kill yourself?”

 Arthur starts tearing up. “I was going to try a couple times, but... I chickened out or something else happened, and then I had a dog, and my parents didn’t really know about it, so I couldn’t kill myself with the dog around, so that put me off, and the reason it’s open now is because I was going to do it and then you rang the doorbell and you just stopped me and I’m so sad, Eames, I’ve never been this sad before, and now you’re here and my chest hurts and I love you and I don’t know what I’m doing anymore and just help me, please help me.” He’s crying by the end, tears streaming down his face, and before he can go to wipe them off, Eames is there, holding Arthur’s hand in one of his own and using the other to hold Arthur’s cheek, using his thumb to take away the wetness forming there.

 “Oh, Arthur, oh god,” Eames whispers, holding Arthur close to his chest. “Why didn’t you answer your phone, why didn’t you call me?” His voice is desperate and on edge and Arthur thinks that Eames is about to start crying as well.

 “I-- there was a thing. An accident. They took my phone away at the hospital and I guess I just never got it back. I missed you so much,” Arthur says into Eames's shirt, the tears ruining it with saltiness.

 “What accident?” Eames asks, rubbing Arthur’s back soothingly.

 Arthur pauses, considering how much Eames would tear himself up if he told him.

 “Arthur, what accident?” Eames reiterates, pulling back to look at Arthur’s stained face. “What happened?”

 Arthur thinks that Eames would probably rather know the truth from Arthur and have it hurt than have him lie. “The day after you left... Cobb trapped me in my locker overnight. I had a bunch of... things, like my shoulder was dislocated and stuff. It’s over, I’m fine now.”

 Eames's worried expression suddenly turns extremely angry. Arthur wishes he wasn’t injured now if only so that he could hold him back from murdering someone.

 “If you’re alright now, then why can’t you stand properly? Why did you need an inhaler? You’re not using your arm properly and--” Eames argues.

 Arthur puts a hand on his chest to stop him. Eames cuts off but starts seething, closing his eyes to hide his anger.

 “Come on, Eames, let’s just stop and sit down, please,” Arthur begs, willing him to calm down as he guides him to the bed. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, trying his hardest not to let Eames's anger get to him. He’s terrified, he’s always terrified these days, and this isn’t helping him much.

 Eames closes his eyes for a brief moment, and then blinks them open, looking deep into Arthur’s own sunken ones.

 “I missed you so much,” Arthur says quietly, his face only inches from Eames's. “You have no idea.”

 Eames leans forward and presses his nose to Arthur’s neck. “I think I do. And just... you didn’t pick up your phone and I didn’t know what to do and now I’m here and it’s even worse than I had expected.”

 Arthur stays silent, enjoying the feeling of Eames's warm nose on his cold skin. “How long are you staying?”

 Eames pauses. “However long I want to. Or, in reality, however long you want me to.”

 “Really?” Arthur whispers, hoping this isn’t some sort of cruel joke.

 “Really,” Eames says, reassuring him. “I’m assuming that means you don’t want me to go.”

Arthur laughs nervously. “No, never.”

 It makes him so happy, unbelievably happy, but they’re just avoiding the subject at hand at this point.

 They’re silent for a few minutes, just enjoying being pressed up against one another, enjoying the other’s presence. Eames's fingers feel wonderful against him, even through the fabric of his shirt, and Arthur wonders why he wasted so much time while he could have had him.

 Eventually, Eames takes a deep breath. “What’s happened to you, Arthur?” he asks, touching his ribs gently.

 Arthur flinches back reflexively even though it doesn’t hurt, and has to restrain himself from pulling away. “It’s worse than it was before, when you weren’t here at all. Cobb and Fischer and just...” he has to take a deep breath to steady himself, to get the words out. “I’ve never told anyone this before,” he says preemptively.

 Eames frowns. “What is it?”

 “It’s happened several times before, like... the day that I had dinner with you and your dad for the first time. He found me, Charles did, when he was hiking. Fischer had left me there after he had... I had....” Arthur shakes his head and looks down at the bed, grasping the sheets tightly in his left hand. “Robert made me give him head near the trail where your dad found me. He left me there afterwards and I usually fall asleep or throw up or something. I don’t know. It happened a couple days ago, too. That’s where I found my dog.”

 Arthur doesn’t look at Eames's face, but he can tell that it’s clenched tightly in anger. He knows that his eyes are closed and his lips are in such a tight line that it must hurt, and he can’t even think about what he would do to Fischer if he were here right now.

 “Eames?” Arthur nearly whispers, and glances at the crook between his shoulder and his neck. “It’s alright, it’s fine, it’s not going to happen again, now that you’re here--”

 “Be quiet, Arthur,” Eames snarls, and Arthur wants to move back, but doesn’t know what Eames would do if he did. He’s terrified, and he doesn’t want to have to face Eames's anger in their first few moments back together.

 “No, Eames,” Arthur says, trying to be strong. “Forget about it. It’s happened before, but it’s not going to happen again. You’re here and everything is fine. Come on, please,” Arthur begs, and Eames shakes his head and stands, his hands curled into fists.

 “It’s not fine, Arthur. What he did is not fine,” Eames growls. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, almost sounding sad underneath all of his anger.

 “Because I thought this would happen,” Arthur whispers, and he has to hold back tears, embarrassed at himself for how much he’s been crying lately.

 This makes Eames pause. “What would happen?”

 “You’d be angry. You angry makes me scared, because it’s not the you I know. It turns you into a different person, and that’s more terrifying than Robert Fischer or Dominic Cobb could ever be,” Arthur says quietly.

 Eames's eyes soften slightly and he relaxes his hands, letting the fists fall into limp hands at his sides. “You really mean that?”

 Arthur nods, still looking down at his lap.

 After a long moment, Eames sits back down on the bed, takes Arthur’s hands, still holding the bedsheets, and places them in his lap.

 “How did you think I would react, Arthur? You tell me that you’ve been... raped, and I’m supposed to take it calmly and cooly?” Eames asks.

 Arthur shrugs, even though he thinks the question is rhetorical.

 “I love you,” Eames says, and it’s soft, softer than Arthur’s ever heard him speak. “I love you, and you tell me something like that, and I’ve seen that you’ve been getting beaten up and that you almost killed yourself, and I’m supposed to just... sit and watch.”

 Arthur shakes his head, finally looking up at Eames's face. “Not anymore. You’re here now, it’s going to go back to the way it was. It will be fine. I promise.”

 Eames just frowns. “You can’t promise something like that. That’s not one you can keep.”

 Arthur nods. “I’ll try. We’ll both try. Does that sound good to you?”

 Eames sighs, and it sounds defeated. “Okay. Fine,” he says resignedly, and pulls Arthur toward him so that Arthur is nearly on his lap, hugging him closely but softly, and Arthur internally thanks him for remembering about his injuries.

 Arthur loves Eames so much that it hurts. He hopes that it hurts less, in later days, and starts to feel more like the warmth that everyone else promises.

 -

 Eames takes him to the hospital later that evening, and they sit together in the waiting room for an hour before Arthur can go in and get himself checked out. They sit hand and hand and Eames does not care whether or not people look over and sneer, or whether they whisper homophobic slurs under their breath. Arthur does a little bit, but Eames pays them no mind, and that sets Arthur at ease.

 Arthur goes in eventually and has all his tests done, a long and arduous process that has Arthur feeling guilty that Eames is sitting in the waiting room alone.

 Despite this, Eames is still there when Arthur returns, now with a cast on his leg and bandages around his ribs. Eames immediately stands up to help, and wraps an arm around Arthur, guiding him to the exit.

 “So, what did they fix?” Eames asks, trying to keep the question as lighthearted as possible.

“They shuttered one of my ribs back into place, gave me a cast, and lots of pain medication,” Arthur says as happily as he can, trying not to make it seem like he would use it for any other purpose than its intended one.

 “Good,” Eames says, nodding. “Let’s get you home, then.”

 They walk toward his shiny rental car and Eames helps Arthur into the passenger’s seat before getting in on his own side. They drive in relative silence, their hands clasped gently on the center console.

 “What happened to your bike?” Arthur asks.

 “It’s being shipped over from England again. It’s been far too long without her,” Eames replies, stroking his thumb over Arthur’s knuckles, and he goes strangely silent.

 “Did you not ride it when you were there?” Arthur asks, trying to make conversation, anything to hear more of Eames's voice.

 Eames nods. “Yeah, I don’t have my motorcycle license over there. I always used to ride her anyway, but just before we came here, I got caught and got a tremendous ticket in court, so there’s no way I’m doing that again.”

 “And you have it here?” Arthur asks, tilting his head in question. One of the first times he had seen Eames, he had been with his bike, and he was pretty sure that was one of his first days in America.

 Eames smiles guiltily. “Well, I sort of forged it.”

 Arthur’s eyes bulge and his mouth drops open. “You forged your drivers license?”

 Eames shrugs, avoiding Arthur’s gaze by keeping his eyes on the road. “Yeah, it’s not that big of a deal.

 Arthur doesn’t quite know what to say. “I just. Uh. I’m really surprised. I wouldn’t really take you for the type to do that?”

 Eames glances to the side. “Really? I just told you that I was riding without a license.”

 “That doesn’t seem like as big of a deal.”

 “It’s not really, compared to some of the other things I did when I was back in London,” Eames says with a huff, looking away again, out the other window.

 Arthur feels a weird pang in his chest, a mix of some worry, strange attraction, and anger that Eames never told him any of this. “Like what?”

 “Are you sure you want to hear?” Eames asks.

 Arthur nods his head in affirmation.

 “I stole a car once.”

 “You stole a car?!”

 “Maybe twice.”

 Eames's slight smile drops when Arthur doesn’t respond.

 Arthur waits for a moment, letting the silence sit between them as he processes this information. He reaches up to palm the crook of his cheek and his nose, rubbing his nose gently, and tilts his head down, not completely sure about how he feels.

 “Arthur?” Eames finally says, very hesitantly.

 Arthur purses his mouth. “Just... tell me something, Eames.”

 Eames nods. “Anything.”

 “You didn’t hurt anybody, right? Not like... not like Cobb?”

 The same silence blooms again, and Arthur becomes increasingly more worried that he’ll hear something he doesn’t want to.

 Eventually, Eames pulls the car over on the side of the road and drops his hands to his lap.

 “Eames,” Arthur says sternly, completely ready to get out of the car and limp home, all the while, wanting Eames to just take him in his arms and never let him go.

 “I uh. It wasn’t the same situation. It really, really wasn’t,” Eames pleads, and he’s not looking all that well, so Arthur gives him the benefit of the doubt.

 “So explain it.”

 Eames takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He shudders a bit on the exhale and smiles a smile so sad that Arthur doesn’t know if his heart can take it.

 “I used to be in a bit of a group,” Eames begins, his eyes still shut tightly. “We didn’t really like to call ourselves a gang, because that was too out there for what we did, but it was sort of the same thing. It was made up of about twenty people, and we just went around and did things to people who deserved them. I never participated much, usually tagged along or backed off if things got too rough, but eventually people started getting angry with us. It was completely understandable, especially considering we’d set cars on fire and ransacked yards and things like that. But they’d confront us, and we’d rough ‘em up a bit, you know. But... but one time, things went a little too far, and they seriously fucked up my mate-- my friend. And he was lying there, bleeding on the floor, and I really didn’t know what to do because he wasn’t responding to anything, and the guy was coming after me, and so I did what I did. I really don’t even know what came over me. I don’t really think I had control over myself....” He paused and his fingers twitched against his leg nervously. “...because I could have just stopped him and it would have been fine. But-- but I broke a few of his bones, and I might have punctured his lung. I didn’t even mean to... I took them both to hospital after and immediately left the group.” He finally turns to Arthur and tries to convey his meaning through his eyes, but Arthur is having a hard time looking directly at him.

 “I tried not to talk to any of them, even my friend, because I couldn’t stand what I had done, but some of them would come up to me sometimes. It was hard not to communicate with any of them. I didn’t want to. It was horrible, what I did, and if I could go back and try to stop myself, then I would, without a doubt. I just... I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

 “The guy.... Is he okay?” Arthur asks, and Eames shrugs.

 “I don’t know. I think so. Like I said, I brought them straight to the hospital, so it wasn’t like I waited very long. But I didn’t make it my main priority to check back on the guy regularly. I was so ashamed of what I did... I just wanted to disconnect myself from all of it.”

 Arthur blinks. “I suppose I understand that. But... but Eames. Eames. I don’t know if I can... deal with this.”

 Eames looks like he’s about to be split in half. “Oh god, Arthur, you can’t... leave me. You can’t. I can’t. I wouldn’t be able to deal with that.” When Arthur doesn’t respond, Eames's voice cracks. “I’m different, Arthur. I’m not who I used to be, I regret what I did, I wouldn’t... I couldn’t...”

 Arthur really doesn’t want to see Eames cry, not at all, so he takes his hand that was hanging limply at his side and cradles it between two of his.

 “Okay, okay, Eames. Okay, we’ll figure something out, please don’t cry, it’s fine, we’ll talk about it--”

 Despite Arthur’s words, a tear rolls down Eames's cheek and lands in the corner of his lips. And, in spite of what Eames's has told him, Arthur wants nothing more than to kiss it away.

 Eames squeezes his hand in a silent thank you, and rests his head on the steering wheel. “I don’t know what I would do if you said you couldn’t deal with that. Because... you know that I would never do that now, and even when I did it then, it wasn’t the same thing as... as what Cobb and Fischer do.”

 Arthur considers that for a long second, rubbing his thumb over the back of Eames's hand for comfort. He sees Eames, sees that he’s more torn up about this than Arthur is, and knows who Eames really is. Arthur knows that Eames loves him, and he can’t imagine that he would do anything like this now, or ever again.

 “You... you just have to promise me something,” Arthur says quietly, staring at the tear hanging from Eames's chin.

 “Anything,” Eames says, seemingly desperate for forgiveness.

 “You have to find out who the guy is, and apologize to him. That’s my condition,” Arthur proposes and hopes that he isn’t suggesting something impossible.

 Eames nods. They sit there for a couple minutes in silence, staring at the road in front of them. Eames grabs Arthur’s hand at one point, stroking over the skin with his thumb, and Arthur feels relief at just having Eames back so deep in his chest that he doesn’t know what to do with it all.

 “Let’s go home, Eames,” Arthur says eventually, and Eames nods. He starts up the engine and they merge into the incoming traffic.

 -

 Eames starts doing research on his phone as soon as they get to Arthur’s house. Arthur takes some pain meds and lays down on the bed, closing his eyes as Eames starts to make his calls.

 After Eames's fifth frustrated phone call, Arthur opens his eyes and puts his hand on Eames's arm. “You don’t have to do it right this very second, you know,” he says, and Eames shrugs.

“I’ll just get it over with. Plus, now that I’ve told you the story, I feel guilty.”

 Arthur considers this. “Alright,” he says finally, wanting to just have Eames to himself for this moment.

 Two calls later, one fairly emotional, Eames puts his phone down with a nervous smile. “I’ve got his name.”

 Arthur raises his eyebrow. “How?”

 “I called that friend I told you about. Yusuf, his name is. He told me and I apologized to him as well.”

 Arthur smiles. “Just one more call, right?”

 Eames nods. “One more call.”

 Eames walks to the other side of the room, and types something into his phone. He paces for a moment, staring at the screen, and Arthur decides to give him some privacy. He slowly turns himself and stands unsteadily, making to get up.

 “Where are you going?” Eames asks hurriedly, like Arthur would up and leave Eames in his own home.

 “I’m going to the bathroom,” Arthur reassures him, watching Eames's distressed face with the phone in between his hands. “I’m sure everything will be fine, Eames.”

 Arthur walks out without looking back, limping heavily to the bathroom, his cast a burden. He wishes they had never gone to the hospital, would’ve rather healed on his own than have to tell his parents about all this.

 Once his one bare foot touches the tiled floor, he closes the door behind him and puts down the toilet seat to sit on it. He slumps over and rubs his face in his hands.

 Arthur didn’t realize that he could feel so many conflicting emotions in so few hours. Depression, happiness, terror, sadness, relief... It’s a huge toll on him, and he finds that, ignoring the bandages wrapped around his chest, that it’s getting increasingly more difficult to breathe. He realizes that Eames is in there, doing just what he asked him to do, just because he wanted to please Arthur. Eames really loves him, he does, and he would never hurt him.

 At the same time, Arthur can’t help but pull up his shirt and run his fingers over his bruises, knowing that if he had known Eames at another point in his life, it could have been him doing this to Arthur.

 He just wants to go to bed, but he knows that if he goes back into his room, he’ll likely have to listen to Eames's phone call, have to hear his words of apology for almost killing somebody. The thought makes him sick.

 He waits another couple minutes or so before he decides to go back in. He rinses his face with cold water to clear his head, and then finally limps his way back to his room.

 Eames has the phone pressed to his ear, but isn’t saying anything. Arthur can’t hear anything from the other side of the line, either, so he carefully lays himself onto his bed, facing the ceiling. He grabs his iPod from his desk drawer and struggles with the barely working buttons to put on some music, anything that will drown out the conversation that isn’t even happening.

 He’s only about a song in when he falls asleep. His dreams mostly consist of Eames, but they’re not anything distinct that he can remember when he wakes to the feel of the man himself sitting on the bed.

 “Hey,” Eames whispers, reaching down to push Arthur’s hair out of his face. “You need a haircut.”

 Arthur chuckles and blinks blearily. “You talked to him?”

 Eames nods. “Yeah. For about forty-five minutes.”

 “What happened?”

 Eames doesn’t say anything at first, twisting his mouth. “We both said a lot. I apologized. He also apologized. Said that if he could’ve, he would’ve done the same thing to me at the time. He recovered completely and is going to uni. Out of his gang. Et cetera. I updated him on my life. Then... it was weird. We sort of talked casually. Like we were friends or something. He has a girlfriend, is studying engineering. Stuff like that.” He lets out a long, deep breath.

 Arthur smiles a bit. “What did you tell him about yourself?”

 Eames shrugs. “That I was living in America. I mentioned in passing that my relationship status depended on the phone call.” He lets out a nervous laugh.

 Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

 Eames's expression drops. “Does it not?”

 Arthur shrugs. “You know Eames, I missed you while you were gone, more than you can even understand. And I realize that it’s not your fault that you left, and you tried to call, and all of that. But, you have to get that it’s been a long time. A month is a more than a while. I sort of detached myself from the thought of seeing you again. So how about we try a date first and see how that goes?”

 -

 Arthur is almost ashamed of himself, the way he’s sitting restlessly on the couch, waiting with anticipation for Eames to arrive. He considers turning on the TV, but thinks that Eames might think that he’s trying too hard. So he sits and fidgets and stares at the clock until he hears a knock at his door, and it almost seems gentle to Arthur, like Eames is trying to prove something.

He goes and checks the peephole just in case, and then opens the door to a widely smiling Eames.

 It’s been less than 24 hours since Arthur conditioned the date, and over that short period of time, his stomach tightened more and more, and the idea became increasingly worse in his mind. What if Eames realized that he didn’t actually like Arthur when they were eating? What if he walks out on him? What if Eames gets sick and can’t drive home? What if they get into a tragic accident and one of them dies? Or both of them do?

 Eames dulls all of those fears slightly when he pulls out a bouquet of flowers from behind his back. Arthur’s mouth drops open and he can imagine that Eames is thinking that he looks ridiculous, if not a bit scared. He takes them carefully by the base of the wrapping and pulls them close to him.

 “What are they?” Arthur asks, breathing them in. He doesn’t care if he looks like the biggest loser in the world right now.

 Eames shows his teeth in his proud grin. “They’re apple blossoms.”

 Arthur hugs the flowers to him, closing his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers, and he thinks that he’s being pretty reasonable right now, considering nobody has ever gotten him flowers in his entire life.

 “You like them?” Eames asks, his voice slightly nervous even if his face doesn’t betray him.

Arthur nods, giving them one last deep breath before leaving them gently on the coffee table. “I’ll put them in water when we get back,” he says, and Eames smiles.

 They leave the house and Arthur locks the door behind them. Eames guides them quietly to his car, and Arthur can’t help but feel a little queasy about the fact that he doesn’t have a license.

Eames opens the passenger door for Arthur and assists him in sitting in the seat, carefully adjusting his cast. He closes the door and then runs around to the driver’s side, getting in swiftly.

 “So, do you have any preference for dinner?” Eames asks, and it looks just a bit like he’s lost some of his nerve, if only for the fact that Arthur has barely said a word the entire time.

 He thinks for a minute, twiddling his fingers. “How about Chinese?” he suggests finally, and Eames picks up his smile once more.

 “Chinese it is.”

 They drive to their little Chinese restaurant, and Eames helps Arthur out of the car and in through the front door, supporting him with one arm as they wait to be seated. Arthur’s mouth goes a little dry because he can feel Eames's fingers running across his skin, even if it is over his shirt, and wishes that he had never made this stupid condition.

 Eventually they get a table, one that they’ve sat at many times before, and order their food.

 Arthur decides to break the ice. “So what did you do while you were in England?”

 Eames laughs. “Went to school, slept a lot. Pined, a bit.”

 Arthur coughs a laugh in return. “So, nothing particularly interesting, then.”

 Eames shakes his head and shrugs. “No, not really. I watched a lot of movies. And when I say a lot, I mean a lot.”

 Arthur grins. “Any worth rewatching?”

 Eames bobs his head. “Tons. I’ll make a list, if you want. We could have movie marathon days with popcorn and the whole deal at my place.”

 “Where are you staying, anyway? Isn’t your dad still in London?”

 “Yeah, I’m staying at the nice motel across from that burger place downtown until I turn 18. My dad said that I can choose an apartment to lease then.”

 The conversation continues seamlessly from there, and Arthur can almost imagine that Eames had never left if it wasn’t for the pain in his ribs every time laughed and the lack of ability to play footsie under the table.

The sun is setting by the time Eames insists that he pay the check and they leave, and Eames suggests that they get ice cream from the place down the street.

 “Alright, but only if you let me pay,” Arthur says, and Eames smiles and accepts this as reasonable.

 They sit on a bench by the water and lick from their respective cones, holding their hands in between them on the seat. Arthur’s heart is swelling with every word Eames speaks, and thinks that Eames is being ridiculous and stupid when he offers him a lick from his ice cream, but does it anyway, if only to make him happy.

 “I would suggest we take a walk, but that’s a little difficult for you, isn’t it?” Eames asks sympathetically and Arthur nods.

 “Sorry to be a mood killer.”

 Eames laughs. “I think it might be worth it just to carry you.”

 Arthur touches above his abdomen thoughtfully. “I’m not sure my ribs would forgive you.”

 Eames sighs in over dramatic despair. “Oh, the tears I will shed over this later tonight.”

 They walk slowly back to Eames's car, and Arthur realizes that he doesn’t care that he’s spent the last three hours with him, he just wants to be around Eames even more.

 Their casual conversation continues in the car, and when they pull up to Arthur’s curb, silence abruptly consumes them.

 Eames smiles nervously, as if he’s not sure what to do next.

 Arthur tries to lick his lips discreetly, but he’s positive that Eames sees. His face goes a deep red and he ducks his head with a chuckle.

 “Do you want to come in?” Arthur asks, and it shouldn’t be this weird, because Arthur loves him so much that it hurts, and he knows Eames feels the same way.

 Eames shows a face-splitting grin then, nodding happily. “Definitely.”

 They both get out of the car then and instead of keeping his arms under Arthur’s shoulders as he normally would, he wraps it around Arthur’s hip and tugs him closer.

 They get in, and unsurprisingly, Arthur’s parents aren’t home. Arthur guides him gently toward the couch and they both sit, turned in so they’re slightly facing each other.

 They continue talking, but Arthur becomes startlingly aware of Eames's lips and his fingers on Arthur’s leg and wants to push forward and just lean into him.

 The conversation stops short when they both realize that the other is barely listening, and that they’re passing back and forth nonsensical, silence filling words.

 “You know,” Eames starts conversationally, “I’ve loved you since you first defended Macbeth, and I’m pretty sure you love me, and you know what’s weird?”

 “What’s weird?” Arthur whispers back, swallowing.

 “We’ve only kissed once. Don’t get me wrong, it was a pretty good kiss, but I was sort of not left satisfied,” Eames says, his tone only half joking.

 Arthur huffs. “What are you saying? That you want to rectify that?”

 Eames twists his mouth. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

 Arthur can’t hold back his smile. “It’s our first date, Eames... how scandalous.”

 Eames shakes his head. “No, it’s not. We went on plenty of dates back before I left. You just didn’t know they were dates, is the thing.”

 “Wow, non-consensual dates. I have to ask, what’s the point of that?” Arthur smirks.

 Eames shrugs. “No idea. Can I kiss you now?”

 “Please.”

 And Eames crushes them together, one hand on Arthur’s back and the other cupping his face and their lips mold together excitedly. Arthur feels a nibble on his lower lip and lets out a yelp of surprise, grabbing onto the lapels of Eames's shirt and tugging his chest even closer.

 Eames has them gasping for breath when he pulls back, and Arthur feels almost giddy. “I’ve wanted that to happen for a really long time.”

 “So I’m expecting that you don’t want it to stop, then,” Eames whispers, and Arthur moans his confirmation as he maneuvers himself awkwardly so that he’s practically sitting on Eames's lap. He presses wet kisses onto Eames's chin until Eames responds and tilts his head down to receive Arthur’s lips properly.

 “I love you so much,” Arthur breathes into Eames's mouth, and Eames moves a hand into Arthur’s long, overgrown hair to grasp onto it and push him forward.

 Eames laughs gently and presses in to lick Arthur’s bottom lip. Arthur’s sure he seems desperate from his moan and the way he’s half forcing his tongue into Eames’s mouth. He's ashamed of his inexperience, but can’t bring himself to stop, because Eames is still kissing him back, is still loving him.

 “Come here,” Eames says and lifts Arthur as carefully as he can so he’s properly straddling him, lap on Eames’s legs.

 Arthur can feel that Eames is at least semi hard underneath his jeans, and that realization terrifies Arthur, enough to have him pull back and put his hand on Eames’ lapel to stop him from advancing forward.

 “What is it?” Eames asks, even as he speaks, trying to pull Arthur into a hug, knowing something’s wrong.

 Arthur continues to try and pull back and along with being irrationally terrified, he’s still so weak, so useless. “Please, please let me go.”

 Eames immediately releases him and Arthur propels himself backwards, off the couch and onto the ground. He cries out pathetically in pain and he honestly can’t believe himself at this point. He’s ruined the entire evening, the wonderful night with Chinese food and ice cream and all Eames wanted to do was kiss him and he so desperately wanted to kiss Eames but now it’s all shit. Everything is.

A choked sound comes from Arthur’s throat and Eames gets up from the couch and sits on his knees in front of Arthur, who is crying at this point, who is so ashamed of himself for crying.

 He thought that everything was going to get better when Eames came back, but his memories are still there. His injuries are still there. He’s never going to get rid of the phantom sensation of Robert Fischer’s cock down his throat, not when he’s with Eames or anybody else. He hates that he’ll always have to be related to the person that made it impossible for him to breathe and walk and think without it hurting.

 “I told you,” Arthur begins, wiping his tears off his face with his sleeve, “back when you first said that you liked me, that I didn’t think I could be in a relationship. With anybody.”

 Eames shakes his head, a desperate look in his eyes. “Arthur, please,” he says, and takes one of Arthur’s hands in his own. “Don’t be ridiculous. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

 “I just... I can’t get Fischer out of my head and I know that... you would never do anything like that, I know, okay? But he’s always going to be there and I’m not going to be able to give you what you want and you’re going to get bored and leave and I don’t think I could take that kind of--”

 “Arthur,” Eames says sternly. “I will never get bored of you. Do you think that I would fly across an ocean and leave my family in another country for a person that I think I’m going to get bored of in a year or two? I love you so much. I told you yesterday that I would stay for as long as you wanted me to, and if that means forever, then I will love you forever. Do you get that?”

 “You say that, Eames...” Arthur replies, and he realizes how much he loves the feel of Eames’s name on his tongue. He’s a selfish person, but he doesn’t know where he wants his selfishness to extend-- to here and now, where he gets to keep Eames until he inevitably does leave, or for later, so he doesn’t get destroyed by loneliness later in life.

 “I say that because I mean it, Arthur,” Eames says, leaning downward, so Arthur can’t see anything but him. “I love you.”

 Arthur sighs and sees no way out of this. “Yeah, I love you too, Eames.”

 Eames leans forward just another inch and gently presses his lips to Arthur’s. The kiss lasts for only a moment before Arthur pulls away.

 “I’m sorry, I just...” Arthur whispers to Eames’s chest, a hand curling into a fist on the seams of his shirt.

 “I know, darling,” Eames assures him, rubbing a hand gently over his cheek, wiping away the tears that had slid there. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

 They sit on the floor until it gets too uncomfortable, and then they move back onto the couch, this time with Arthur tucked safely under Eames’s arm. Arthur’s eyes flutter closed as time goes on and nothing is said and Eames leans down to whisper in his ear.

 “I should probably get going.”

 Arthur shakes his head tiredly. “No, don’t go. Please.”

 “You really can’t stay up much longer, sweetheart. I’d have to carry you up to your room and then leave, and I’m not really sure your body can handle that right now,” Eames explains, and Arthur opens his eyes long enough to see Eames’s regretful expression.

 “Then stay,” Arthur suggests, hands clutching tightly to Eames’s arm.

 “I couldn’t.... We already missed school today and I know how much school you’ve been missing lately. I can tell. So you’re not missing tomorrow. We gotta show those shits that I’m back and that they can’t hurt you anymore. Plus, I don’t have any stuff with me.”

 Arthur glances at the clock under the TV. “It’s not even late, we can get up early and stop by your hotel on the way. Please. I don’t want to spend tonight alone.”

 Eames sighs heavily and Arthur sits in the silence, his heartbeat increasing as Eames considers his offer.

 “Fine. But we have to be careful, okay? Your parents might find out, or I might hurt you when we’re sleeping, or--”

 “It’ll be alright, Eames. It’ll all be fine. Now help me upstairs, I’m exhausted.”

 They travel up the stairs and into Arthur’s room, where Eames very carefully strips Arthur and puts him into new clothing, looking over his bandages on the way. He gives Arthur a gentle kiss whenever Arthur smiles, which just makes him smile more. It’s a continuous and unbreakable chain. Eames himself asks if he can strip down to his boxers and Arthur nods, nearly unconscious.

 “Are you sure? Because we honestly never have to do something you don’t want to do. If you feel uncomfortable with me sleeping in my pants, then I won’t do it.”

 “Why would you be sleeping in pants,” Arthur mutters groggily, and Eames just smiles. “I’m fine, Eames. Don’t worry about it.”

 Eames hesitates before carefully extracting his jeans and climbing into the small bed with the other boy, who immediately curves into him as much as possible with his ribs.

 “Really though, Arthur. If we’re going to be in a relationship, then you have to tell me when you don’t want something to happen. If you never want to do something sexually or you’re having a hard time emotionally, just tell me and--”

 “Can we please have this conversation later? It’s such a mood killer,” Arthur grumbles unhappily.

 Eames smiles grudgingly. “And what sort of mood is this?”

 “Sleepy mood.”

 He reaches up blindly and kisses Eames as ferociously as possible while half unconscious, and Eames is the one who eventually pulls away. “Go to sleep, Arthur.”

 “Hmm, why don’t you go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” Arthur whispers. “I love you.”

 “Love you, too. Goodnight.”

 ~~~EPILOGUE~~~

 Eames’s eyes widen as he walks over, and Arthur’s heart can’t help but beat a little faster.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, blinking.

 “Shit,” Eames mutters, half in response and half to himself. “I forgot to get popcorn at the store.”

 Arthur laughs and pats the bed beside him. “It’s fine, the store brand stuff is shit anyway.”

 Eames lets out a heaving sigh as if the lack of popcorn is tearing him up inside. He jumps onto the bed anyway, startling Charlie into Arthur’s lap.

 Eames frowns. “I am displeased to inform you, dog, that where you are resting your head is actually my spot in this house.”

 Arthur shakes his head, fighting to conceal a smile. “Not funny.”

 “Very funny. I’m the funniest person you know.”

 “Hardly.”

 They settle in regardless, with Arthur’s head eventually falling onto Eames’s shoulder. They rearrange wordlessly to put Eames’s arm around Arthur’s waist and Charlie distributes his weight evenly among the two men. The three of them sit in silence, watching the movie playing on the TV for a short period of time before Eames groans.

 “What the hell is this?” he asks incredulously.

 Arthur frowns. “When Harry Met Sally,” Arthur says.

 “Helpful. I meant ‘why are we watching this.’”

 “It’s a classic! It’s hilarious and adorable.”

 “It’s horrific. Let’s put in Die Hard.”

 “Weren’t you the one who left and watched quality movies for over a month? You had named some pretty good ones, too. What happened to the Eames who didn’t like Die Hard?”

 “Hey, I never didn’t like Die Hard. You’re delusional.”

 “If you don’t like When Harry Met Sally, then I’m sorry to inform you that this relationship is done for. You’d have to wander the streets of Chicago, cold, hungry, and very lonely.”

 “And if I told you I love this movie?”

 “If you were being truthful, I’d consider marriage.”

 The room goes silent, the lights flickering out and the TV going black.

 “What happened?” Arthur asks, looking around nervously.

 Eames shrugs. “Power outage? Honestly, I’m not going to check. If it’s something I have to take care of, I’ll do it in the morning. But...”

 “What?”

 “Did you realize what you said?” Eames whispers, seeming a lot closer than he had a second prior.

 “...What?”

 “You know.”

 “I honestly don’t.”

 “About... getting married.”

 Arthur took a long second to breathe, blinking rapidly though Eames could not see him.

 “I was kidding,” he whispered back, short of breath.

 “Would you consider it, though?”

 “I don’t know...”

 Arthur feels the weight of Charlie suddenly leave and then Eames’s other arm is wrapped around his waist and Eames is laying kisses from his collarbone to his cheek.

 “Please? We’ve been together for a long time...”

 “My parents were together for ten years before they got married. Five is practically nothing.”

 “Five is ages. It’s long enough for a child to learn to speak and start school.”

 “We go to school way too early in this country,” Arthur coughs out.

 “I love you, Arthur. I will love you for our entire lives if that’s how long you want me to love you, and probably even if you don’t want me to, I still will. This is just like... sealing the deal. We can invite all of our friends, or none of our friends if you want. However you want to. Please.”

 Arthur looks back through his memories of them; he remembers when his parents found out about their relationship, moving to Chicago, Arthur taking classes online while Eames took up work as a mechanic. He remembers when Eames drove all the way back home to get Charlie in the dead of night, back in time for Arthur to wake up to licking kisses all over his face. He remembers when they sat at the top of the ferris wheel at the Navy Pier and how they went around three times, Arthur telling Eames that he still felt like dying sometimes, couldn’t get that out of his system. He remembers when they had sex for the first time and Eames was ridiculously sweet and generous and never stopped kissing him. He remembers the one time he tried to perform oral sex and he threw up and all Eames did was comfort him for days afterwards, promising that he never had to do anything he didn’t want to, I promise, I promise. He remembers buying furniture when they switched apartments because Arthur got a job and Eames stealing little kisses every time Arthur tested the functionality of the kitchen sinks. He loves Eames, he loves him more than anything else, but... marriage?

 “Why does it matter so much to you?” Arthur asks.

 Eames takes a pause and Arthur can practically hear him thinking. “It’s like, in relationships, you can just break up and be done with it. We’ll regret things and hate ourselves for the things we do and have to introduce each other as ‘boyfriends’ to our colleagues. In marriages, you always talk things out first, try to make things work so that you can finish together in old age what you started together. I can tell everybody that Arthur is my husband, Arthur Eames, and it will be really great because people will call you that and some won’t know if they’re talking about you or just us together. It matters so much for so many different reasons, I can’t even begin to say them all,” he whispers, all of this tumbling out of his mouth almost without pause. “I just love you and I want to prove it.”

 “But I know you love me,” Arthur says, sinking down into Eames’s arms, deliberately not acknowledging the first part of his speech.

 “I know you know. Does that not mean that I want to remind you how much I love you every day?”

 Arthur sighs. “I’ll have to think about it. And if I say yes, then you better propose in a way that’s a lot more romantic than this.”

 Eames grins. “So that’s not a no, then.”

 “Not a no. But not a yes, either.”

 There’s a long pause where Arthur just stares into the center of the room and tries to let his eyes adjust to the dark. Eames tightens his arm, effectively pulling Arthur closer. He puts his mouth against Arthur’s ear and hums gently.

 “Why don’t you want to get married?” Eames asks, letting his lips graze Arthur’s skin.

 Arthur sighs. “My parents were just... not good parents, I guess. They never paid attention to me and they never had time for anything except work. So I don’t know, I guess that I just never saw their relationship as one to look after.”

 “That’s not a very good reason,” Eames says gruffly.

 “Why not?”

 “Well firstly, just because your parents didn’t pay attention to you doesn’t mean they didn’t love each other. And secondly, do you really think if they hadn’t been married that they wouldn’t have been workaholic assholes?” he reasons.

 Arthur takes a moment to consider this.

 “Your parents were just the people they were. It wouldn’t have changed regardless of whether or not they got married.”

 “What about your parents?”

 Eames grins. “My parents' divorce brought me to you. Plus, they’re back together now. It all turned out fine. Now stop making excuses and come here.”

 Eames untangles himself from Arthur’s grasp and climbs on top of him, kissing all over his face, his cheek, forehead, lips. Arthur grunts, feigning unhappiness and half attempts to push Eames off, quite unsuccessfully. Eames doesn’t stop, easing Arthur’s lips apart with his own, kissing him gently, softly.

 Arthur is stunned at just how much he loves Eames. After all of this time, five years, he still can’t believe how hard his heart beats when Eames comes home from work and kisses him soundly against the kitchen table or how they can walk in the park and hold hands and Arthur doesn’t have to worry about anybody calling him a faggot or beating the shit out of him because he knows that Eames will protect him.

 Eames knows how much he means to Arthur, too. Arthur knows Eames knows. He can tell from the way he knows that Arthur wants to be close without having sex, and loves him enough to accept that and just cuddle him for the rest of the night. He knows Eames knows because every day when he comes home from work and Arthur is still doing his school work, he just rubs his shoulders until the tension slides out of them and gets that when Arthur kisses that back of Eames’ neck and wraps his arms around his waist when Eames is doing the dishes, it’s to repay him for everything he’s done.

 “Arthur,” Eames sighs into Arthur’s mouth, smiling against his lips.

 Arthur barely registers that his shirt is already off and Eames’ hands are running down his sides until Eames grazes a nipple and Arthur shivers violently, gasping against Eames’ mouth. Eames laughs lightly and shifts down so he can fasten his mouth around the sensitive nub and lick and bite as he pleases. Arthur squirms and Eames moves his hands down further to steady Arthur’s hips, just barely sticking his fingers into the waistband of Arthur’s pajama pants.

 When Eames unfastens Arthur’s nipple from his mouth, Arthur nearly pines at the loss. “Why’d you stop?” he asks, breathless.

 “We are moving onto bigger and better things, my love,” Eames says in a low voice, low enough to make Arthur shiver again. Eames finally tugs down Arthur’s pants all the way to have to cock quickly rise up to smack obscenely against his stomach. It’s almost ridiculous how much Arthur’s body reacts to Eames. Eames grins slyly, catching one of Arthur’s hands with his own, guiding it down to his cock. He guides Arthur in stroking himself while simultaneously kissing along the base, licking when he thinks Arthur will be most surprised by it. He eventually lets Arthur continue to stroke himself and reaches over to the bedside table to grab lube and a condom. He puts the condom on smoothly and is about to squirt a generous amount of lube onto his fingers when Arthur shifts.

 “Wait,” he commands, using Eames’ muscled arms as leverage to turn himself around onto his stomach, using his elbows for support.

 Arthur turns his head around in time to see Eames blink in surprise. “Are you sure?”

 They’ve only done this a few times before, only ever done a few things other than something when they’re facing each other, but Arthur is feeling daring. He feels like Eames is going to get bored if they don’t do something new once in a while.

 When Arthur doesn’t respond, Eames shakes his head. “If you don’t want to, we really don’t have to.”

 Arthur shakes his head in return. “No, it’s just. I want to. I’m just nervous. I’ll tell you to stop if I can’t do it anymore.”

 Eames nods. “Alright.”

 Arthur props himself up on his elbows and hums lowly to give Eames the go ahead. He doesn’t hear anything for a moment and is about to turn around and ask what the hold up is, but just before he can, Eames’s hand runs soothingly along Arthur’s back, across his shoulders blades shoulders, then back down to the small, and then back up again. Arthur shivers in anticipation and pleasure, the feel on Eames’s hand on his back a reassurance that he’ll be fine. He may even like it.

 Finally, he can hear the lube being spread over Eames’s fingers, and then he can feel the wetness against his hole. He gasps in surprise at the cold, and he can hear a throaty chuckle from Eames.

 “Ready?” Eames asks, sliding his fingers back and forth temptingly.

 “Hmm, yeah,” Arthur says, bucking back into Eames’s hand.

 Eames slips one finger into him first, slowly massaging from the inside. Then comes a second finger, a third eventually. Arthur is about to cry with how much he wants it, wants to tell Eames to either speed up his fingers stroking him far too softly, or take them out completely and put something else there instead. He knows that he will enjoy it, he just wants to get to it. He wants to feel the difference.

 But when Eames slides his fingers out, his other hand’s fingertips gliding lightly across Arthur’s skin, what replaces them is not what Arthur expects.

 Eames’s growing beard scratches Arthur’s skin, giving him the most bizarre sensation in his thighs. He’s quivering in anticipation, knowing what’s going to happen but still not knowing what to expect, and he’s not disappointed when Eames’s tongue flicks out and touches the ring of muscle, causing Arthur to let out a cry of pleasure.

 Eames pulls away and leans over Arthur’s back, his lips at Arthur’s ear. “You all good down there?”

 Arthur gives a breathy giggle and a nod. “Please, please do that again.”

 He can almost hear Eames’s grin. “With pleasure.”

 As Eames retreats back down, Arthur relieves the pain in his elbows and lets his shoulders fall the the mattress, his face pressing into the mattress. Eames lets out a guttural groan and leans down, licking his way into what feels like Arthur’s stomach, so deep inside him that he didn’t know anything like this was possible. His fingers grip the sheets so hard that they feel like they’re going to rip. His breathing increases tenfold and Eames grips his hips with two hands, hard enough to bruise, and Arthur swallows heavily at the increased pressure, just letting himself feel as Eames’s beard scrapes along his skin, his tongue heavily and wet.

 Eames gives one long, final lick and comes up for air, his breathing almost as heavy as Arthur’s. Arthur wants to scream for him not to stop, but he forgets as soon as Eames’s cock is position at his hole, slowly stretching its way in. Arthur holds his breath, his back tense, and Eames rubs one of his hands over his neck, silently telling him to relax.

 When Eames has finally bottomed out after what feels like an eternity, Arthur can finally feel the difference in angle, why people find this position better.

 “Come on, Eames,” he begs, wanting to feel the stretch and burn.

 Eames coughs and thrusts in slowly again, letting Arthur adjust before moving any more quickly. Once they’re at a more reasonable pace, however, Arthur can barely feel any other part of his body except where he and Eames are connected. Their breathing synchronized, their bodies matching thrust for thrust, Eames puts a hand over Arthur’s on the bed, right next to his ear, and twines their fingers together.

 “Fuck, Eames,” Arthur whispers, his voice muffled completely by the mattress. Somehow, Eames understands him anyway and with the hand that’s not entwined with Arthur’s, he reaches around their bodies and grips Arthur’s cock in his hand. He matches the rhythm of his stroking to the rhythm of their thrusts and in less than a minute, Arthur is coming all over the sheets, crying out loudly as Eames moans and speeds up. With every thrust, the pleasure in Arthur grows, sending bliss through every single limb of his body until soon after Eames is coming too, collapsing to the side and tugging Arthur with him.

 With Arthur’s back pressed up against Eames’s, Eames throws his arm over Arthur’s chest and kisses the back of his neck lovingly.

 “Fuck,” Eames says, almost inaudibly. Arthur laughs his agreement, his own arm going to rest over Eames’s.

 Eames allows almost no time for them to relax before slipping out of Arthur, causing him to whine loudly, and going to the bathroom. Arthur can hear the sink running and he smiles. He takes a deep breath and lets out a little giggle involuntarily.

 Eames swaggers back in, a smile growing on his face. “What are you laughing about?”

 “It was really nice,” Arthur says, reaching for Eames as the other man takes the wet washcloth he’s holding and wipes Arthur’s stomach tenderly.

 “I’m glad.” Both of them are exhausted, Arthur can tell, and he leans up for a kiss before Eames goes to discard the cloth in the bathroom.

 When Eames comes back, Arthur is half asleep, eagle spread over the bed. Eames laughs gruffly and picks him up to lay under him, Arthur’s chest pressed up against his own. Arthur lets out a sigh of contentment.

 “I’ll think about it,” Arthur whispers. He can feel Eames’s grin on his hair as he presses a kiss against it.

 “Thank you, love. Now go to sleep.”

 “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> tw: suicide, tw: prescription drug abuse, tw: bullying, tw: rape/non-con (not between Arthur and Eames, however).  
> And if you're done, thank you so much for reading!


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